“Do you want to punch me?” he asked with a surprising confidence.
“Huh?”
“Do you want to punch me? Will that make you feel better? Do you need to let it out?”
“NO, I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING PUNCH YOU! WHAT ARE YOU? NUTS?”
“COME ON, punch me! I won’t do anything, I won’t fight back—it’ll all be good,” he insisted.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He wanted me to punch him. I’d never punched anyone before. Should I?
Would it make me feel better?
What if I started and didn’t stop?
What if he did fight back?
But I didn’t want to fight—verbally or physically. I just wanted to talk. He was so drunk. Most people, when they’re that drunk, spill their guts without much of a push. Not this guy. He was unreachable. And maybe he didn’t think there was a conversation to be had.
All of a sudden, it felt like some sad, bitter bartender inside me had just mixed together the cocktail of the night.
A splash of grief.
A shot of fury.
A dash of pride.
And he was serving it straight.
“I’m not punching you,” I said. My voice cracked.
I knew this wasn’t going anywhere. I just wanted to run. Anywhere but here.
“GROW A PAIR OF BALLS AND DO IT! I CAN FUCKING TAKE IT!”
“GO FUCK YOURSELF!” I shouted.
“NOW WE’RE TALKING! COME ON! DO IT!” he kept yelling, pushing.
But I didn’t want this. I wanted my dad. I wanted someone who would love me without me having to make a scene. Someone who wanted me around without me begging for attention. Someone I didn’t have to physically hurt to feel seen. Relationships are hard, but this?
This was beyond me. And so, while he stood there, squaring up and waiting for the punch, I simply said:
“Go fuck yourself.” And I turned around.
I walked away—fast, focused, not looking back. He stood there, swaying, yelling after me.
“DON’T WALK AWAY! DON’T YOU BE WALKING AWAY FROM ME, SON!”
But I did. Even as my legs trembled. Even as my heart pounded.
I didn’t stop. And when I turned the corner, I ran.
Was this it?
Was this the conversation?
My heart was racing, but not from running—I’d only made it a few steps. I stopped at the edge of the pavement, letting cars pass. Their headlights were too bright, too intense, like beams slicing straight through me. I felt exposed. I tried to breathe. Tried to count. Made it to three, maybe, and then my thoughts took over. My legs tingled. My body stiffened. Everything felt too loud and too far away. Yet it was like wearing earplugs and drowning in a thick, hazy fog. My breath came in short, shallow gasps—as if I was breathing through a straw.
In.
And out.
In.
And out.
Drops of sweat rolled down my spine. One after another.
In.
And out.
My eyes started to water. I couldn’t see the cars anymore—but I could hear them. I crouched down on the pavement, wrapping my arms around myself tightly.
Fighting the noise.
Fighting the everything.
I started counting again.
One. Just focus on the breath.
Two. What’s going on?
Three. In. And out.
Four. Did he follow me?
Five. Fully in. Let it all out.
Six. I think he’s behind me.
Seven. Inhale. Exhale with a sigh.
Eight. I’m alright, I think.
Nine. Is he behind me?
Ten. I inhale—and hold.
Then slowly…it dissolved. The noise. The panic. A cloud of silence fell over everything.
And in that silence, I felt still. Exhale. The storm had passed. But the residue lingered. The quiet felt heavier than all the shouting. In that moment, I felt alone. More than I’d ever felt, even when he was standing right next to me. When I finally turned to look behind me, he wasn’t there.
Truth is, he hasn’t been there for some time now.
Quiet Paragraphs 
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