The memories surged forth like a tidal wave, dragging me back to a time when the weight of the world threatened to consume me. It was eight months earlier, a period etched in the depths of my darkest nightmares.
I found myself standing in the suffocating confines of our tiny kitchen, the air heavy with unspoken grievances and the lingering scent of a meal gone cold. The dishes lay abandoned in the sink, a chaotic jumble of ceramic and stainless steel that mirrored the disarray within my own mind. The countertops were cluttered with remnants of hastily prepared meals, a testament to the frenetic pace of our lives and the mounting tension that simmered beneath the surface.
My hands shook as I clung to the edge of the counter, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my chest. Each beat echoed like a drum in the silence of the room, a stark reminder of the deafening roar of my own despair.
"I can't do this anymore," I whispered, the words barely audible above the suffocating weight of my own anguish. "Death... death would be a welcome escape from this nightmare."
"Okay, and then what would I do?"
No matter what I said, Kyosuke had already crafted his own narrative, a twisted tapestry of blame and accusation that he hurled at me with relentless force. Each word was like a dagger to my heart, tearing through the fragile facade of my composure. I tried to fight back, to defend myself against the onslaught of his anger, but it was like trying to hold back the tide with nothing but my bare hands.
But I couldn't stop fighting, couldn't stop pushing back against the suffocating weight of his accusations. Deep down, I knew it was futile, that no amount of arguing would change his mind. But the thought of surrendering, of letting him win without a fight, was unbearable. It was a battle that I couldn't afford to lose, not when my very survival depended on it.
With each passing moment, the echoes of my abandonment trauma grew louder, like thunder reverberating through the confines of our cramped apartment. It was as if every word Kyosuke hurled at me was a lightning strike, igniting the flames of my defiance even further.
"You never listen to me!" I cried out, my voice cracking with the weight of unshed tears. "You twist everything I say into something it's not!" Kyosuke's eyes flashed with a dangerous intensity, his features contorted with anger. "Oh, here we go again," he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Playing the victim card, are we? Typical."
His words cut through me like a knife, leaving behind jagged wounds that refused to heal. "I'm not playing anything!" I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just want you to hear me, to really listen to what I'm saying!" But Kyosuke was already on the offensive, his words a relentless barrage that battered against the fragile walls of my resolve. "You're always making everything about you," he spat, his voice laced with contempt. "You're so selfish, you know that?"
The accusation hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. "Please," I begged, my voice barely a whisper. "Please, just stop. Can't you see how much you're hurting me?" But Kyosuke's expression remained cold and indifferent, his eyes devoid of any trace of empathy or understanding. "Oh, spare me the theatrics," he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're always so dramatic."
I felt like I was drowning in a sea of his indifference, the weight of his indifference crushing me beneath its suffocating embrace. "I'm not being dramatic," I protested, my voice rising in desperation. "I'm trying to tell you how I feel!"
But it was like talking to a brick wall, my words falling on deaf ears. Kyosuke's gaslighting tactics left me feeling small and insignificant, like my pain didn't matter, like I didn't matter. And yet, despite the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to consume me, I refused to back down. I refused to let him break me with his cruel words. Even as the tears streamed down my cheeks and my voice trembled with emotion, I stood my ground, a defiant beacon in the midst of the storm.
As the accusations flew like arrows piercing through the fragile fabric of my composure, I couldn't help but feel a chilling sense of déjà vu. Blame had always been a familiar companion, a relentless specter that haunted my every step, casting a shadow over my existence.
Hime and I had been the perennial black sheep of the family, our voices silenced and our pain dismissed by a mother who turned a blind eye to the tumult within our hearts. From a young age, we had learned to swallow our anguish, to bury our cries for help beneath layers of forced smiles and stoic facades. But the wounds left by her emotional absence festered beneath the surface, a constant reminder of the love we had yearned for but never received.
Even now, as adults navigating the tangled web of our past, Yuriko's refusal to confront the truth of our abandonment pain weighed heavily on my heart and soul. Her denial mirrored my own internal struggle, a desperate attempt to evade the harsh reality of our fractured family dynamic. But no amount of denial could erase the scars etched into our beings, reminders of the love we had craved and the pain we had endured in its absence.
And here I was, repeating the same patterns, perpetuating the cycle of emotional distance that had defined my own upbringing. But this time, it was different. This time, I fought not just for what I had been conditioned to fight for, but for myself.
All I ever yearned for was happiness. At the outset, I believed my desires mirrored those of everyone around me: a family, a fulfilling career, the quintessential college experience. But when Shogo entered my life and Sakura unexpectedly graced us, I found myself adrift. Merely 19 and with scant life experiences beyond the shadows of childhood trauma, I struggled to navigate the complexities of parenthood and partnership.
In my youth, I witnessed families adorned with smiles, parents seamlessly navigating their roles, lives painted with hues of normalcy and tranquility, starkly contrasting my own tumultuous upbringing. I attempted to recreate that semblance of domestic bliss, assuming the mantle of motherhood not just for Sakura but for an entire household. Juggling responsibilities, I transformed hobbies into means of survival, all the while yearning for a partner to share the burdens with. Yet, Shogo remained oblivious to the depths of my distress, leaving me to shoulder the weight alone.
Repeatedly, I laid bare my weariness and discontent to Shogo, professing my love amidst the ache in my heart. Love, I realized, is an insufficient salve for wounds left unattended. Foolish as it may seem, love compelled me to endure far longer than rationality dictated. In the aftermath of our separation, amidst the onslaught of social media vitriol and the haze of heartache, I found solace in the arms of Kyosuke.
In hindsight, I comprehend that Shogo and I were but children ourselves, each burdened with disparate life experiences, attempting to weave our lives together. The stark contrast in age between Kyosuke, a decade my senior, and Shogo, barely a year older, illuminated the stark disparity in our respective journeys. Despite our brief union, Shogo's failures to rise to the occasion pale in comparison to the traumas inflicted by Kyosuke during our six-year relationship, a tumultuous chapter that only recently reached its end.