Chapter 10 #2
For a long time, I didn't know how to deal with that emptiness.
Therapy wasn't an option—I couldn't afford it, and waiting for someone to guide me through my own mind felt impossible.
So, I turned to something I could control: art.
I started creating illustrated books and stories for myself, a world where I didn't have to be small or invisible.
I drew fierce warriors, heroines who fought dragons, sly monsters, and impossible beasts.
They were beautiful, confident, and strong, the exact things I didn't think I was.
Through their adventures, I learned to imagine courage for myself, even when it felt like I didn't have any.
My sketchbooks became therapy, my drawings a safe space to explore power, beauty, and resilience I hadn't yet allowed myself to feel in real life.
I didn't stop there. I poured myself into volunteering—shelters, elderly homes, orphanages, anywhere I could make a tangible difference. It wasn't just about giving; it was about reminding myself that I mattered, that my presence could affect the world in meaningful ways.
With Arlo, I began to gain more and more self-confidence.
He made me feel beautiful, cherished, and special, I felt like I mattered in a way I hadn't believed possible before.
I wondered if someone could ever see me as more than a shadow.
With Arlo and for a fleeting moment, I almost believed I could be the heroine of my own story.
Until, of course, that feeling faded. Then the old, nagging thoughts crept back in: Is it me?
Is there something innate about me that makes me replaceable?
I tried to shake them off, to push them aside, but they lingered, persistent as shadows.
When the doubts threatened to consume me, I returned to my art, to the worlds I created in my illustrated books.
Princess Yuki, who fights tooth and nail to reclaim her lost kingdom, became my mirror and my refuge.
Then there's Captain Elara, a space warrior navigating treacherous galaxies while protecting a crew that doubts her abilities, and Flam, a fierce mage who challenges dark kings and wins not just battles, but respect and love along the way.
Each heroine embodied courage, resilience, and beauty—the qualities I craved to feel in myself.
Through them, I practiced strength, confidence, and bravery I didn't yet feel fully in my own life.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Declan's voice broke through my focus—soft, but carrying that lazy grin I could hear even without looking up.
I glanced up from my sketchbook. "You can't afford them. Inflation hit my thoughts too."
He chuckled, dropping into the chair across from me like someone who owned every space he sat in.
Declan's been my friend since the day we both volunteered at the shelter, two introverts pretending we were only there for community service hours.
Somewhere between burnt coffee and bingo night, we clicked.
Maybe because we both understood what silence can hold.
He's a brooding poet who hides grief behind wordplay. I know he lost his fiancée to suicide. He never talks about it, but sometimes it leaks out in the pauses between his jokes.
"So," I said, snapping my sketchbook shut, "your turn. What's your latest attempt at pretending you're fine through rhymed couplets?"
Declan smirked, wiggling his fingers theatrically. "Ah, my latest magnum opus—'Ode to My Cat's Existential Dread.'"
I snorted. "That sounds suspiciously autobiographical."
"Guilty," he said, mock-offended. "Though to be fair, she stares into the void better than I do."
"Classic Declan," I said, shaking my head. "Turning heartache into stand-up comedy since 1990-something."
He placed a hand on his chest dramatically. "It's a coping mechanism, thank you very much. If people laugh, they forget to ask the hard questions."
"Like whether you're actually okay?" I asked gently.
He smiled faintly, the kind that doesn't quite reach the eyes. "Exactly. And if they do, I read them a haiku about my cat's trust issues. Works every time."
I laughed, but the sound faltered halfway.
Sometimes I think he doesn't even realize how clever he is at hiding heartbreak behind a joke.
Maybe that's why our friendship works: we both understand loss, both know what it feels like to be overlooked or broken, and yet we find ways to survive, to laugh, and to keep moving forward.
"You look... distant," Declan said softly, tilting his head the way he does when he's trying to pull me back from wherever I've drifted. "Still thinking about him?"
I hesitated, but the truth was already sitting heavy in my chest. "Yeah," I whispered. "More than I probably should."
He moved closer, lowering himself into the chair across from me, arms folded loosely, eyes never leaving mine. "Are you sure he never loved you?"
"Yes." The word came out sharper than I meant, too fast, too defensive.
My throat burned as I tried to steady my voice.
"If you only read what he wrote." I laughed, but it was thin, brittle, like glass about to crack.
"He never talked to me like that. Those letters—God, they were full of fire and want and all these beautiful words. Words that he never said to me."
My fingers shook as I set down my pencil. ''With me, he was... calm. Careful. Like someone sitting beside a stranger on a long train ride—polite, pleasant, gentle, patient.'' I could feel the tears rising, thick and hot.
''He wrote to her like he was bleeding, but with me?" I swallowed hard. "It was like he'd run out of words.''
I let out a shaky breath and stared down at my hands, watching the way they trembled in my lap. "He said I made him feel calm," I whispered. "I thought that was love. I really did. I thought calm meant safe, and safe meant forever. But now... now I think it just meant he'd settled."
Declan didn't say anything, and the silence pressed against me until I had to fill it.
"I wanted those silly love declarations," I admitted with a small, broken laugh.
"The kind that make you blush when you read them.
I wanted to be written about like that. I wanted to be felt, not just.. . accepted."
"Did you ever tell him that?" Declan's voice was gentle, almost afraid to touch the wound.
I shook my head. "No. I thought he showed his love in quiet ways—acts, gestures, little things. But when I think about it now..." I swallowed hard. "He's kind to everyone. That's just who he is. It was never about me. I wasn't special. I was just there."
Declan's brow furrowed. "Then why didn't you confront him?"
"I hate confrontations," I murmured. "They scare me." My voice wavered, and I stared at the floor. "I'm just not built for that."
He looked at me with that impossible mix of empathy and quiet stubbornness that always undoes me. "You're stronger than you think, Feb."
I shook my head, tears burning now. "No, I'm not. And that's okay. I've learned to live small."
He was quiet for a moment, eyes softening. "You miss him."
The words splintered something inside me. I tried to blink fast enough to stop the tears, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. "All the time," I whispered. "Every morning, every stupid song on the radio. I keep waiting for it to stop, but it doesn't."
"Then?" Declan asked, barely above a whisper.
"Then nothing," I said, voice shaking. "Because it's always the same story. I'm never the one people choose first. I'm the comfort, the in-between, the person they stay with until they find what they were actually looking for."
I swallowed, breath trembling as the words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"I'm so tired, Declan. Tired of being almost enough.
Tired of being someone's quiet place but never their home.
So please—" I looked up at him, eyes shining with tears— "don't make me hope for something more.
I don't think I could survive it again."
By the end, I could barely breathe. My hands trembled, and my throat burned. Declan didn't argue; he just nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between us.
"Okay," he said finally. "I won't say anything more. But I want to take you somewhere."
"Where?" I asked, wiping at my face.
"You'll see."
Later that evening, he drove us to an abandoned park on the edge of town. The place looked forgotten—rusting swings, benches swallowed by ivy, and an old fountain cracked and dry. The air smelled of rain and earth, heavy and quiet.
Declan stopped near a patch of wild grass and gestured ahead. "There it is. Go on."
I frowned, confused. "I'm sorry, what am I supposed to do?"
He smiled faintly. "Release it. All of it—the pain, frustration, anger. Drawing helps, sure, but sometimes you need to just... scream into the void."
I blinked. "Scream into the void?"
"Yep," he said, hands in his pockets. "It helps. I promise."
I let out a disbelieving laugh. "That's ridiculous, Declan. I'm not going to scream like a lunatic in a deserted park."
"Fine," he said with a shrug, "but then keep all that hurt bottled up. Keep it there with all the other things you've never said. Like when your parents went to your sister's recital but forgot about your art competition. Or when they forgot to buy your plane ticket for that 'family vacation'."
My chest tightened. "Declan—"
"Or when your high school boyfriend called your sister the most beautiful girl in school," he went on softly, relentless but gentle.
"When your friends left because you didn't go to college.
When your ex cheated on you. Or when the man you thought was the love of your life was writing letters to someone else even when you were with him. "
"Stop," I said weakly, my voice breaking. "Why are you doing this? This is cruel."
"Life's cruel, Feb," he said quietly. "They were cruel. But you—" he stepped closer, eyes fierce now—"you didn't deserve any of it. So scream your pain, Feb. Did you deserve any of this?"
"No..." My voice cracked. "No."
"Say it louder."
"No!"
"Louder."
"NO! NOOO!" The scream tore out of me like something alive, raw and shattering. My body shook with every word I had never said, every heartbreak I had buried. I screamed until my throat ached and the sound turned into sobs. My knees gave out, and Declan caught me before I hit the ground.
"Let it out," he whispered, holding me. "I did the same once, and it helped.
You are a beautiful, worthy human being, Feb.
It's their loss. Now use that pain. Let it fuel you.
Move on—from him, from all of them. You are stronger than you realize.
Stronger than every heroine you've ever created, because you carry them all within you, yet you are real, you are alive.
Let yourself rise from this, Feb. Let yourself be everything they could never understand. "
I clung to him, trembling so hard it felt like my bones might shatter, my tears soaking into the fabric of his jacket, leaving hot tracks that burned against my skin.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel invisible, like a shadow drifting through someone else's life.
I felt alive raw, jagged, cracked open in all the places I had been trying to hide.
Every heartbreak, every betrayal, every quiet loneliness I had swallowed came rushing to the surface, and somehow, it didn't terrify me. It was cathartic. It made me real.