August 26, 2024

She too grew up in a house with cracks. She was not alone but dealt with it alone. Therefore, she kept her distance from people because you can never really trust someone, not even your own blood. To those she crept close to, she gave all the warmth she had locked inside. 

She also came from a shattered house, but her hand was held by fingers she could not abandon. Thus, she grew up holding their hands even with an aching heart. She was very tired, but she loved those lovely hands. 

Or so my dear friends from dysfunctional home seemed to me.

I too grew up in a somewhat broken house, but it was quite different from them, just as much as theirs was from mine. Mine decided to pretend there was never a crack in the house. They just lived with each other: one lived ever so silently, even with all her laughter, while the other lived imperiously, even with all his kindness. Therefore, I grew up not knowing who to project my anger onto, because they were there, arguing and laughing as always. I did not know who to avoid, because they were so kind that my entire existence owed them. I did not know who to resent because they apologized in the morning. In the pages of my memories, my mind does not recall the chaos. I only remember the scattered consequences: terrified faces, damp atmosphere, broken scenes, and my fears. Just as I am now, unable to pick the symptoms but only the outcomes.