Part I · Illusion

Letters I'll Never Send (to My Younger Self)

You’ll think love means proving your worth. You’ll mistake her rage for passion, her control for concern, her silence for sadness. It’s not. It never was. She will say, “No one else would ever love you like I do.” You’ll believe her. You’ll carry that lie like scripture, tattooed into your spine — until it cracks. You’ll ignore the first slap, excuse the first insult, call it stress, hormones, trauma. You’ll become fluent in rationalization, because it’s easier than accepting the truth: you’re being hurt. You’ll think you’re the villain — maybe you raised your voice. Maybe you forgot to say “thank you.” Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you are hard to love. But no matter how many ways you twist your body to fit her shape, you’ll never be enough for someone who needs you to be small. You’ll keep trying. You’ll hold her when she cries over the men she cheated with. You’ll apologize for her betrayal. You’ll clean the mess, hide the bruises, lie to your friends. They’ll stop calling. You’ll tell yourself they’re just busy. You’ll stay — not because you’re weak, but because you were never taught that leaving was an option. That safety is your right, not a reward for being good enough. But one day — you will leave. Your legs will shake. You’ll go to the police quietly, tell the kids, mom is just on a trip. Your voice will crack as you tell her you’re done. And she will scream. Like always. But this time, you won’t flinch. You’ll learn that love should never make you afraid. That a home shouldn’t echo with threats. That peace isn’t something you earn. It’s something you deserve. And years from now, you’ll write this letter to the boy who still thinks he has to save her to be worth saving. You don’t. You never did. You are already enough.