I didn’t just embrace self-sufficiency; I glorified it. My hyper-independence was a trophy, something polished and proudly displayed—a symbol that set me apart from those who needed help. Dependence was synonymous with weakness, and I had no use for it. I kept that trophy close, tucked safely behind walls that I thought would protect me. At first, those walls were small—innocent even. A quiet form of self-preservation, each brick laid with careful intention. But slowly, those walls grew. One layer of protection became another, and soon, they had transformed into a fortress. A fortress so thick, so cold, it was impenetrable.
The fortress was expensive, but at least I was protected. I was the only laborer for all the work behind those walls. It was difficult and lonely at first, but I learned to carry my own burdens, dragging the weight of my world behind me, convinced that this was the only way to survive. I had built this fortress with my own two hands, brick by painstaking brick. I had worked too hard and spent too much to build this fortress—I would not risk its collapse to ask for help now. Besides, I had always held a weight on my shoulders heavier than I, always offering to carry more—it was my job to do that, right?
As all walls do, they began to wear down, little by little. Small cracks appeared, subtle at first, barely noticeable but enough for the whispers of my loneliness to slip through. Sometimes, I'd let those whispers escape, not knowing where they'd land or who might be listening just outside the walls. And when someone responded, I’d cautiously reach my hand through those cracks, allowing just enough space for brief connection.
But every time, it was fleeting. I allowed myself to entertain meaningless flings—momentary glimpses of something real—before I quickly and deliberately patched the cracks, sealing them shut. I couldn't risk letting anyone see too much, to allow those cracks large enough that they could begin to wear the walls further, big enough that they could reach through as well. What if they tore down my walls with callous? I had spent too long building these walls to let them crumble. I had to cut off their view, to retreat back into the safety of my fortress where I could be alone, untouched, and not a burden to anyone else. I was happier alone, doing it by myself, just like how it had always been, I told myself.
I set aside everything else to focus on patching my walls, determined to make them stronger than ever before. I swore off letting cracks form, vowing that I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. I’d been too careless, too distracted, and now I was paying the price. So I redoubled my efforts, meticulously reinforcing every weak point, building the walls higher and thicker. No more slips, no more cracks. This time, they would hold.
And my trophy—my hard-won badge of self-sufficiency—I polished it until it gleamed. I convinced myself it was brighter than it had ever been, that its shine was a reflection of my resilience, my ability to stand alone. I bear it proudly, hold it high, and remind myself that I didn’t need anyone. I could manage, like I always had.
But the more I tried to convince myself, the heavier that trophy became. Polishing it took longer, and every time I lifted it, it felt heavier in my hands. It wasn’t as light as it used to be. The weight of it started to dig into my shoulders, a constant reminder of the burdens I refused to share. But I refused to let go. I’d rather stumble under the weight than admit I couldn’t carry it anymore.
As I worked on patching a particularly stubborn crack, my focus was absolute. I mixed the mortar, pressed it into place, smoothing it over with a steady hand. Each stroke was deliberate, a final attempt to shore up the defenses I’d spent so long constructing. But as I was lost in the rhythm of my repairs, a new voice cut through the silence. It was gentle, almost a whisper, but steadfast.
I almost dropped my tools. I looked up, stunned, and scanned the area around me. There were no cracks, there couldn’t be, I had made sure of it. I pressed the mortar harder, trying to drown out the voice, but it lingered. The voice wasn’t demanding, nor was it intrusive. It was simply there, an invitation wrapped in curiosity and warmth. It didn’t push or try to break through the walls; it merely asked if there was a chance to be let in.
“There is nothing behind these walls of interest. It is cold and filled with monsters. You don’t want in.” I responded, feeling a pang of frustration.
For a moment, the voice fell silent. I held my breath, waiting for it to fade away, to return to the quiet that had surrounded me before. But then it spoke again, softly, persistently.
“I am not afraid of monsters,” it said, “I understand if yours are protective though. I’m not here to force my way in.”
The voice faded but never entirely left as I continued my work, but my movements grew less focused, distracted by the persistent presence of the voice. Each layer of mortar felt heavier, the walls more burdensome than they had ever been.
Then, one day, the voice returned again, as gentle and steady as before. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I paused, caught off guard by the question. I wanted to respond with irritation, to drive it away, but something in its gentle tone made me hesitate.
“No,” I said, my voice clipped, “there’s nothing you can do. Just... go away.”
The voice fell silent for a moment, and I resumed my work with renewed frustration. But the voice lingered in the back of my mind, a soft reminder of something I couldn’t quite grasp.
Days passed, and then one evening, as I worked on yet another crack, the voice returned once again, unwavering and calm.
“I’m still here,” it said simply, without any trace of reproach or urgency. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
I allowed myself to consider its offer. I made a small, reluctant decision. I carefully chipped away at one of the cracks, not to seal it, but to create a narrow window. It was a tiny opening, barely large enough to see through, but it was there.
I stepped back, my heart pounding. It had been a reckless decision. I waited, half-expecting to see the voice pushing through the opening. Instead, the voice remained just outside, its presence gentle and respectful. I peered through to find kind eyes, and gentle hands, a bucket of mortar in tow, carefully smoothing the edges of the tiny window from the outside.
Over the next few days, I found myself drawn to the small opening, visiting it more often. The man, with his quiet patience, continued to honor the space I had given, never pushing beyond the limits I had set. Patching small cracks around the window to ensure the walls integrity.
The more I allowed myself to interact through that tiny opening, the more I began to appreciate the gentleness and respect that came with it.
One evening, after a particularly grueling day of repairs, I slumped against the wall, my resolve weakening. The voice, as usual, was there, a steady presence on the other side of the small opening.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” it asked, as gently as always.
This time, I hesitated and looked through the window to find the same kind eyes and gentle hands, still holding the bucket of mortar.
I took a deep breath, allowing the fatigue and frustration to surface. “I’m tired,” I admitted quietly. “I don’t think I can keep up this pace much longer.”
Without a word, the voice responded by offering a hand through the window, holding a small but sturdy tool—something that might make the repairs easier but could also chisel away more. My fingers brushed against the tool with a mix of reluctance and curiosity.
Grasping it tightly, I hesitated for a moment then began to carefully carve out a doorway. Once complete, the man’s gaze softened as he looked through the newly created doorway. There was no rush, no attempt to push beyond the threshold; he simply acknowledged the opening with a gentle nod. The warmth in his eyes seemed to fill the space between us, creating a bridge of connection that had been long in the making.
“I’ve created a doorway,” I mumbled, a mix of vulnerability and hope in my voice. “It’s so you can come in sometimes.”
He stepped closer and reached through, his hand brushing against mine. With a tender smile, he took in the walls, admiring both their strength and their patches. “I see how much effort you’ve put into this,” he said softly, without judgement.
I nodded, feeling a swell of pride and apprehension. “There’s something else,” I said, turning to retrieve my prized trophy. It had been my constant companion, polished and displayed with fierce pride. I brought it to him, the weight of it heavy in my hands.
“May I?”
He extended his hands, offering to help hold the weight. With trepidation, I handed it over. The relief that washed over me was profound. For the first time, I felt the weight of the trophy ease as he held it, his support allowing me to breathe more easily. He carefully wiped a smudge from its gleaming surface.
As days turned into weeks, the man remained a steadfast presence. Whenever cracks appeared, he was there to help patch them, his touch gentle and patient. And when I felt the need for a window, he was there to create one, never pushing, always respecting the space I needed. Together, we worked to maintain and strengthen the space, turning it into a sanctuary where both of us could thrive. The trophy that had once been my sole pride now shared its place with the warmth of his presence. With every crack repaired and window built, I realized that the strength I had once feared to share was now the foundation of something far greater.
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WOW! 💔 This piece broke my heart and put it back together again. Beautiful.
OH MY GOD