Chapter 10: The Final Fall

There's a moment right before you lose everything —

When you realize you were the one holding the match the whole time.

And you can either blow it out —

Or burn yourself alive.

I started avoiding Kiaan again.

He didn't push this time.

He just sent small texts.

"Thinking of you."

"Here if you need me."

"Miss you."

And every message felt like a knife to the chest.

Because I missed him, too.

Missed him so much it physically hurt.

But missing someone and believing you deserve them aren't the same thing.

One night, my mom called.

I hadn't spoken to her in months.

I almost didn't answer.

But something told me to pick up.

Her voice was tight.

"Your father's sick," she said. "He's asking for you."

My body went cold.

I don't remember hanging up.

Don't remember deciding to go.

I just remember standing in front of my childhood home — shaking so badly I thought my bones might shatter.

He looked smaller than I remembered.

Older.

Weaker.

But when he looked at me, his eyes were the same.

Sharp.

Unforgiving.

I waited for an apology.

Waited for anything.

But all he said was:

"You should've tried harder to be a better daughter."

I didn't cry.

Not there.

Not in front of him.

I just walked out of the house and kept walking until my legs gave out.

Then I collapsed onto the sidewalk and sobbed so hard strangers stopped to ask if I needed help.

I said no.

Because how do you explain that the person who was supposed to love you first —

Never loved you at all?

I spiraled after that.

Didn't go to work.

Didn't answer my phone.

Just sat in my apartment, surrounded by old journals and shredded pieces of poems I'd torn apart with my bare hands.

I kept thinking about Kiaan.

The way he looked at me like I wasn't a lost cause.

The way he stayed, even when I burned everything down.

And the way I'd been slowly, systematically, killing that love.

I finally texted him.

"I need you."

He came.

Of course he did.

But when he saw me — pale, gaunt, eyes hollow from crying — something cracked in him.

He pulled me into his arms, holding me like he thought I might disappear.

But this time, he didn't say he'd stay.

This time, he said:

"I don't know if I can keep doing this."

I froze.

Because this wasn't the boy who promised not to leave.

This was a boy who had given everything — and had nothing left.

"I love you," he whispered, voice raw. "But I can't keep loving you for the both of us."

I didn't even try to stop him when he walked out.

Because I knew he was right.

And I knew I had finally, truly, lost him.

I shattered that night.

Tore through my apartment like a hurricane — smashing picture frames, ripping books off shelves, screaming so loud I thought my throat might tear.

I found an old photograph of myself as a child and collapsed to the floor, clutching it to my chest like I could hold onto a version of myself that hadn't been destroyed yet.

I cried until I couldn't feel my face.

Until my body felt hollow.

Until there was nothing left but silence

I don't know how long I lay there.

But eventually, I dragged myself to the bathroom, flicked on the light — and stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked wrecked.

Hair tangled.

Eyes swollen.

Face streaked with tear tracks.

But the worst part?

I didn't even recognize myself.

I pressed my hand to the glass, staring at the girl on the other side.

And I whispered:

"I'm sorry."

I don't know who I was apologizing to.

My reflection.

My inner child.

The version of myself I'd been killing for years.

But it broke something loose inside me.

Because for the first time, I realized the person who had hurt me the most —

Was me.

I wrote a poem that night:

I keep setting fire to every good thing I touch —

Then crying when all that's left is ash.

Maybe healing is learning how to hold my own heart

Without using my nails as knives.

Maybe love is letting someone see me bleeding —

And not calling it weakness

I fell asleep on the floor.

And when I woke up, I knew what I had to do.

I had to fix this.

Not for Kiaan.

Not for my father.

Not for anyone else.

For me.

Because I wanted to live.

I wanted to try.

I wanted to learn what it felt like to love myself —

Even if it was the hardest thing I ever did.