you’re gone.
it was my last day.
i walked past you, and you didn’t let go—
you held on for a second
and told me i was a beautiful soul.
i was about to cross oceans,
but you measured distance in heartbeats,
not miles.
we said our goodbyes—
ephemerally.
forever.
you found yours,
and i lost mine.
because—
you didn’t find me,
but i lost you.
just try.
the urgency of these words grows.
like thermometer reaching up—
but you’re reaching for a desired temperature.
so what number are you hoping for?
just try.
there’s no more, there’s no less.
there’s no eyes flickering between doubt and stubborn hope.
just try.
my head’s getting heavier
under the mellow sound of a hand-pan.
the lows and highs—the valleys, the peaks.
back of my neck grows longer
as the voice of metal deepens.
the brush, the tap—oh, gentle, gentle tap.
the gravity is pulling down—
chin to the chest.
shoulders collapse.
fingers running,
rushing across the terracotta mirror.
the unfelt energy rises from your toes. in an instant, it gathers at the heart center.
raw. strong.
slowly overwhelming.
you choose to give it your undivided attention. there’s nowhere you’d rather be.
it travels higher—it becomes you,
you become it.
your face is no longer yours—it’s a smooth sheet of paper being crumpled into a ball.
at the peak, the stranger’s body creepily stretches into a flimsy cow pose.
praising the ether.
squinting up.
you explosively transition into a cat shooting the energy back into the limbs.
the ball of paper unravels, each corner pulled back into a smooth sheet.
the body is yours.
again.
“bless you,” I say.
the brass door handle is stone cold. it begins to melt as you grab it and squeeze it tight. as the handle turns, tiny wool threads brush your wrist to remind you they’re here to keep you warm. you open the door just enough for you to slip in and leave the crips, cold air behind.
don’t you like it though?
don’t you like when your cheeks start to loosen up? and when you shut the door and stillness soaked in warmth surrounds you?
A quiet pause to welcome the day—
You clumsily stomp between staying wrapped in the sheets or getting up, your feet gently stretching as if to test the idea of waking. Rays poke through the old stained floral curtains. You give in to the urge to feel the blood rush through your body as you rise, the deep, soft carpet tickling your soles. You walk to the window, fling the draperies wide open, and—simply—say hello to the world.
Your skin glows in the morning sun. Your eyes water. A nearly unnoticeable movement in the corners of your mouth mirrors your arms shooting up in a stretch to salute the sun.
This moment is precious.
Cherish it.
No need to rush. The world can wait.
So when the phone rang on one cold December morning, I was in my bedroom. Mum answered it in the kitchen, and I casually made my way into the living room. I made sure my brother was too busy building an army of little plastic soldiers and Dad was cooking, TV on at the same time. Perfect. I sat down next to the phone and masterfully followed step two and three.
“…coming down over the holidays,” said the strangely familiar male voice on the other side of the line.
Who was this? Definitely a grown man, of which I knew a few—mostly friends of Mum’s and Dad’s. Or family. Had I seen him before? Maybe he visited us when I wasn’t home?
“Okay,” Mum stated dryly.
“Can I come and see him?”
“Sure you can!”
“I thought I could maybe take him round to Jane’s and make a day out of it, if that’s cool?”
“Well, why don’t you ask him? He’s old enough to tell you if he wants to.”
“Yeah…sure…”
There was a hesitation in his voice.
“Janny, sweetie! Come over here!”
Called Mum out loud whilst holding the phone away from her.
I froze.
This wasn’t one of those nine-times-out-of-ten conversations. They were talking about me. This man wanted to come see me, take me to Jane’s and make a day out of it. Someone’s planning on making an appearance soon and my presence is apparently required.
I’m in the spotlight and I don’t like it.
Anxious all of a sudden, I still managed step five impeccably.
“Where is he? Janny! Someone’s on the phone for you!”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to speak to this man, but for some reason he wanted to speak to me. Why though? To say Merry Christmas? Happy New Year? My birthday was coming up soon so maybe he wanted to get in super early to wish me all the best. Maybe school? What if it was one of my friend’s dads? I had a hard time matching the voice with a face. Yet, it didn’t feel completely new.
“Where’s the boy?! He was here a second ago. JANNY!”
Mum was relentless. They usually are.
“Mum…”
“There you are! Someone is asking for you.”
It’s your dad.
“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.
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.
Writing feels peaceful.
The cadence of keys being tapped or the steady pace of pen on paper—it’s one of the most grounded moments I can imagine. Especially when you’re fully in it, when the brain, the hand, the keyboard, and the paper stop feeling like separate parts and become one.
Whether you sit down with clear intention or just let it happen doesn’t really matter.
What counts are the words that come out—and they always do. You show up with vulnerability, and somehow the deep connection you’re creating feels easier in solitude. That’s your cue to embrace it.
A blank page doesn’t judge.
It doesn’t interrupt or expect anything. It simply waits. So write your little heart out. Tell it your darkest memories, your quietest secrets, your unspoken desires.
Share your grand ideas and your silliest philosophies.
Let it hold your weight, your wonder, your wandering thoughts. Play. Let go of boundaries. Just write.
Quiet Paragraphs 