Quiet Paragraphs

Tag: argument

  • part 4: collapse and clarity

    part 4: collapse and clarity

    “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.

  • part 3: breaking point

    part 3: breaking point

    And so, even though I felt cornered, I tried a couple more times to steer the conversation back to what mattered. But it was like shouting into the wind. No one listened. No one cared.

    I didn’t know what to think. Was I meant to feel outnumbered? Intimidated?

    Did he ask his family to show up? And if so, why? To shut me up? Did he feel like he needed backup?

    My mind was chaos. Every possible theory colliding with the next. And in the middle of it all, it hit me—it’s not happening. With a face full of bitter realization, I slapped some money on the table, stood up, said goodbye, and left.

    I walked up the few stairs toward the exit, the stale pub air clinging to my skin. I felt the weight of drunken eyes piercing my back. It made me stop for a moment.

    Should I…?

    What if…?

    I hesitated, but only briefly. Then I pulled the door handle, stepped out, and left that uninviting space behind me.

    Fresh air.

    But I couldn’t feel it. I only saw the shape of my breath, too frequent and too heavy. I was shaking—but not from the cold. I’d only made it a few steps when I heard him shouting behind me:

    “DON’T DO THIS TO ME!”

    I couldn’t believe my ears. The streetlight buzzed faintly overhead, swallowing his voice in fog. Everything around us felt too still, too indifferent—like the world itself was conspiring to let him keep disappointing me.

    “Don’t do what?” I called back.

    “DON’T YOU WALK OUT ON ME!”

    That was it. I couldn’t hold it anymore.

    “WHAT WAS I MEANT TO DO, HUH? I CAME TO TALK TO YOU. TO YOU ONLY. ABOUT US. YOU KNEW THIS. AND YOU KEPT IGNORING ME—YOU BROUGHT ALL THESE PEOPLE. WHAT WAS I MEANT TO DO?”

    We argued. Our gestures cast warped shadows across the building façade—just as dramatic as our words. No one cared. People passed by with their heads down, watching their own shadows instead.

    “Why are you like this?” I asked.

    “Like what? I care about you,” he slurred.

    I could see it now—he was drunk. Obviously. I felt desperate. Like nothing I said mattered, like no words could reach him.

    “You don’t! And I don’t want you to tell me, I want you to show me. You make it so difficult!”

    I was trembling all over. My palms were sweaty. My mouth, bone dry.

    “Did your mum put you up to this?” he said, completely out of the blue.

    “WHAT THE FUCK? Why would you bring her into this? She’s got nothing to do with this. It’s you and me, and that’s it!”

    “Look, I never hurt your mum. It wasn’t always butterflies and sunny days between us, but I always treated her well. I just want you to know that.”

    His eyes were watering.

    “Leave her out of this,” I said firmly.

    “Okay, let’s talk then.”

    “Finally! What the fuck took you so long?”

    “You wanted to talk, so here it is! You didn’t even recognize me.”

    “WHAT? What do you mean I didn’t recognize you?”

    But I knew what he meant.

    “I bumped into you a few months ago. You didn’t even say hello—you blanked me.”

    A wave of anger swept through me.

    “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really want to go there? Alright. Yeah—we didn’t exactly ‘bump into each other,’ did we? You were out with a bunch of people, off your face drunk. They dragged you across the whole town square to say hello. And you could barely stand. I did speak to you. But of course you don’t remember that, do you? No fucking wonder. Imagine your dad—who you hardly ever see—is in your hometown and doesn’t even bother to get in touch. And then you play the blame game? Fuck right off, mate.”

    We stood there in silence. It was eerie. Everything else faded—just the two of us suspended in a scene that felt both too loud and too quiet. My heart was racing. My legs were jelly. It took everything not to collapse. His legs seemed like jelly too—but for very different reasons.

    “Do you want to punch me?” he asked with a surprising confidence.