I was never made for confrontation. I took the heat, let it settle on my skin, hoping time would cool it, hoping it would pass. But growing older teaches you this— nothing left unspoken disappears. It lingers. It burns. It hurts in ways you’d never wish on another soul. Life feels fine and dandy when the body is healthy, even as the soul is dying— bleeding out from all the problems left to fester, to smolder, until something finally explodes. Then all that’s left are pieces of you. You sit there, hands shaking, collecting fragments of a once pure, once happy soul. Memories spill out as you touch each shard— anger, fear, jealousy, joy, and most of all, pain. The sorrow of nights spent alone, wishing someone was there, wishing you weren’t. No matter how heavy it became, you stayed silent. That was the mistake. The fatal flaw. The single crack in the armor that mattered. Now it feels too late to fix what’s broken. You are who you are. All you can hope for is someone who loves you enough to embrace the damage, to help gather the pieces. That is the love I want— not pity, but passion fierce enough to put a soul back together.