Riya_3506

They say a girl’s first love is her father. But what happens when that love is just a void? When the space he should have filled becomes an ache you carry like a scar?

I grew up searching for him — in the eyes of every man I met, in friendships that drained me, in relationships that promised forever but slipped away. I wore my heart like an apology, hoping someone might see the emptiness inside me and choose to stay anyway. And every time they left, I blamed myself, quietly wondering if I was too broken to be loved.

I wrote about it in my journal, words spilling out like confessions I couldn’t say out loud:

I searched for you in every face,
A ghost I could never touch.
I watered my wounds with hope,
But you never bloomed.

Still, I kept loving —
Not to find you,
But to find myself.

But this story isn’t just about absence. It’s about discovery. About the love I thought I didn’t deserve, and the man who showed me that even the most shattered hearts can learn to beat again.

This is the story of how I lost myself, how I pieced myself back together, and how love finally found me — not as a replacement, but as a reminder that I was whole all along

Bruised but Still Loving

Because love meant letting someone see all the places I was broken —

And hoping they wouldn't use those fractures to shatter me.

It had been two months since I met Kiaan, and he'd become a constant in my life.

Sitting in my apartment watching terrible TV shows he didn't care about, just because he knew I hated falling asleep alone.

Because every day he stayed, the tighter my chest felt. The more my brain started spinning out of control, waiting for the moment he'd finally realize I was too much work and quietly slip out of my life like everyone else had.

Because at least if he left, the ache would be familiar.

One night, we were sitting on my balcony, sharing a bottle of wine, the city buzzing below us. Kiaan was telling me a story about his childhood — something about getting lost at a carnival — but I wasn't listening.

The way his fingers tapped absently against the railing.

And I hated how much I wanted him.

Not just his body — but his presence, his attention, his care.

"What?" he asked, catching me staring.

I looked away, my heart hammering. "Nothing."

But Kiaan never let me get away with lies.

He scooted closer, his knee brushing mine, and I felt my entire body tense like he'd set me on fire.

"You're scared of me," he said softly.

I laughed bitterly. "I'm not scared of you."

He tilted his head, studying me. "Then what are you scared of?"

I swallowed, my throat tight. "You leaving."

He just leaned in — slow, careful — until our foreheads were almost touching, the city lights painting golden streaks across his skin.

"Then let me stay," he whispered, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

It was desperate, messy, a collision of teeth and tears.

Because kissing him felt like admitting defeat.

Like surrendering to the very thing I'd spent my whole life running from.

But Kiaan kissed me back like he wasn't afraid of my brokenness.

Like he wasn't afraid of the chaos living in my chest.

He kissed me like I was something worth saving.

Afterward, we lay tangled on the floor, my head on his chest, his fingers trailing absent patterns down my spine.

Like I'd just handed him a loaded gun and was waiting for him to decide whether or not to pull the trigger.

"I don't know how to do this," I whispered.

Kiaan's fingers never stopped moving. "Do what?"

"Love," I admitted, my voice breaking. "Trust. Let people in without ruining everything."

He pressed his lips to my forehead, lingering there like he could physically push love into my body.

"You don't have to know how to do it," he said against my skin. "You just have to let me try."

I cried myself to sleep in his arms that night.

But because the idea of being loved that gently —

Hurt more than any heartbreak I'd ever survived.

That night I wrote while seeing Kiaan sleep so innocently

I want to believe love isn't a war.

I want to believe it can be soft —

A quiet hand brushing the hair from my face,

A voice saying, "I'm not leaving,"

Chapter 6: The Storm Before the Breakthrough