They tell you that hard work pays off. That effort equals reward. That love, when given freely, will be returned.
I've learned these are the cruelest lies we tell ourselves.
I don't write this story from a place of triumph. I write it from a chair I can barely bring myself to leave, in a room that feels smaller every day. My phone sits face-down on the desk, notifications piling up like unpaid debts. Each buzz is another demand, another expectation, another reminder that the world keeps turning even when you've stopped.
Eight months ago, someone looked me in the eyes and promised forever. The words felt real. Her hands felt real. The future we painted together felt so solid I could have built a house on it. Then she was gone. No explanation. No closure. Just silence where a person used to be. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it all - if my mind conjured a love story to fill the emptiness, only to reveal the trick when I'd grown dependent on the illusion.
Work is the same. I pour myself into tasks that drain me dry, only to watch others claim the credit, pocket the rewards, pat me on the back and say "good job" before handing me another burden. They know I'll do it. They know I can't say no. Not because I'm kind, but because I'm too tired to fight.
I don't write this story to inspire you. I don't write it to preach about resilience or inner strength or any of those empty platitudes people offer when they don't know what else to say.
I write it because I need to believe that even when you're empty - truly, completely empty - you can still move forward. Not because you're strong. Not because you're special. But because sometimes, the act of standing up one more time is the only rebellion left against a world that's taken everything else.
This is a story about a blade that grows sharper the more it's worn down. About a man who finds strength not in his heart, but in the absence where his heart used to be.
If you're reading this, you probably understand why.