Chapter 2: The War with Men

I used to worship men. 

I thought they were gods—untouchable, powerful beings who decided whether I was worthy of their attention. I placed them on pedestals so high that I couldn't see their flaws, only my own. 

It started with my father. 

Or maybe it started with the absence of him. 

I never had a name for the feeling back then—the ache of watching my friends' dads tie their shoelaces or cheer for them at sports day. I didn't know why I felt like I was missing a limb when the teacher asked us to make Father's Day cards, or why my mother's face tightened like a wound every time I asked, "Why didn't he stay?" 

He became a shadow in my mind. A mythical figure I constructed out of hope and longing. I imagined him as kind, brave, and regretful—someone who would've loved me if only life had been kinder. 

But the older I got, the more the fantasy shattered. 

I learned he hadn't died tragically or been lost in some grand accident. He'd simply left. Walked out of my mother's life, and by default, mine. No letters. No calls. No explanations. 

Just gone. 

And the love I'd crafted for him hardened into something else: rage.

By the time I turned fifteen, I hated men. 

I hated their laughter in hallways, the careless way they carried their privilege, their inability to understand the damage they could cause just by leaving. 

At school, the corridors smelled of dust and sweat, the scent of old wooden benches and fresh ink mixing in the air. Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, slicing the space into golden bars, but I always felt trapped inside them. The boys walked like they owned the place—elbows knocking against doorframes, feet dragging, voices loud enough to fill every empty space. 

I hated how they could play with a girl's heart like it was a toy, then toss it aside without a second thought. 

But more than anything, I hated how much I still wanted their approval. 

I became a paradox—craving their presence but resenting their power over me. I surrounded myself with guy friends, telling myself I just got along better with boys, when really, I was studying them like an unsolvable equation. Testing them. Watching them. Waiting for them to mess up, to leave, to prove me right. 

And they always did. 

Aarav, my childhood best friend, walked past me in the school hallway one afternoon, his new girlfriend's arm slung around his shoulder. He barely glanced at me. The air was thick with the sharp scent of eucalyptus from the janitor's mop, and the walls—once familiar, covered in peeling blue paint and faded posters of school events—felt like they were closing in. 

Ronit, my college crush, flirted with me just enough to keep me hooked, then ghosted me for someone "less intense." The first time I saw him with her, they were standing outside the campus café. The place smelled of coffee beans and burnt toast, the hum of conversations blending with the occasional clatter of cups. My heart clenched as I watched him tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, something he had never done for me. 

And Dev—the one I thought would be different—stopped talking to me the moment I told him I didn't want anything physical. I still remember the last time we sat together in the college library, the scent of old books thick in the air, the dim desk lamp casting a soft glow on his face. His expression turned unreadable, like he had already started saying goodbye in his head. 

Every time a man disappointed me, I whispered to myself: See? They're all the same.

And every time, it hurt like hell. 

I built walls after that. Thick, impenetrable walls made of sarcasm and ambition. I buried myself in studies, treating my grades like weapons—a way to prove I was better than every guy who had underestimated or abandoned me. 

At work, my boss would often pause after reading my reports, nodding with a mixture of approval and amusement. His office smelled of fresh paper and expensive cologne, the massive mahogany desk separating him from the rest of us like a throne. He called me unstoppable, his voice carrying the weight of admiration, but I knew better. It wasn't ambition that drove me. It was anger. 

I aced every subject, topped every class, worked harder than anyone else in the room, because success felt like the only way to win a battle no one knew I was fighting. 

But at night, when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I felt the weight of it all pressing down on my chest. The truth I couldn't outrun: 

I didn't want to hate men. 

I just wanted one of them to stay. 

To choose me. 

To prove me wrong. 

Six Months Ago* 

"I'm not your father, Aria." 

Kiaan's voice was soft but firm, the words slicing through me like a blade. 

We were sitting in my apartment, the air thick with unspoken tension. The small space smelled like lavender candles and the remnants of dinner, but nothing about it felt comforting now. The dim yellow light from the lamp barely reached the corners of the room, shadows stretching across the walls like ghosts waiting to be acknowledged. 

I don't even remember what triggered the fight—probably something small, like him being late for dinner or forgetting to text back. But to me, every little thing felt catastrophic, like proof that he was one step closer to leaving. 

"I never said you were," I snapped, arms wrapped tightly around myself. I always did that when I felt vulnerable—held my own body, as if I could keep myself from falling apart. 

"You don't have to say it," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Every time I mess up, even a little, it's like you're waiting for me to abandon you. You punish me for the things he did." 

My throat tightened. "Don't talk about things you don't understand." 

"But I do understand," he said, leaning forward, eyes burning into mine. "I understand what it feels like to be scared of love. But Aria, I can't spend my life paying for someone else's sins. I can love you, but I can't save you from your ghosts." 

I hated him in that moment—hated his honesty, hated how well he could see through me. Because he was right. 

I was punishing him. 

And worse, I was punishing myself. 

That night, long after Kiaan left, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were swollen, my skin blotchy from crying, but I forced myself to keep looking. 

I didn't recognize the girl staring back. 

She looked tired. 

Broken. 

Lonely. 

And for the first time in my life, I whispered the truth out loud: 

I hate my father for leaving.

I hate men for reminding me of him.

And I hate myself for still wanting to be loved by them.

The words felt like poison spilling from my mouth. 

But maybe, just maybe, letting them out meant they wouldn't rot inside me anymore. 

Maybe this was the beginning of something else. 

Maybe this was the beginning of healing