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.
My dad?
I hadn’t seen him, or talked to him, in a good while. In fact, I didn’t remember the last time. I knew what he looked like because sometimes I’d be flipping through family photo albums and his face would pop up here and there—and these pictures dubbed up as memories. I liked his smile but I didn’t know what it felt like when he smiled at me. I heard him laughing through the pictures, but I couldn’t work out what it sounded like. We had spent time together, and I just couldn’t, for the life of me, remember how it felt to have him close to me. Next to me. With me.
“Do you want to talk to him? He’d like to ask you about something…”
“Okay.” I took the phone and put it to my ear and waited, holding my breath.
“Say something, baby.” Mum’s encouragement was sweet. I just wished I had no eyes on me.
“Hello…?” I said, my voice shaking a little.
“Hey, buddy! So nice to hear you! How’s my little champ doing? Do you remember me? Gee, we haven’t seen each other in a while… I have been really busy, you know? I was going to phone you sooner but things kept coming up, would you believe that? But hey, we’re talking now, right!?”
“Yeah…” was all I could say.
Then there was silence. It lasted eternity. It felt longer than the 11 years I had been alive for.
“So anyway… I would like to come and see you! I’m coming down in a couple of weeks with Margo and Monica, do you remember them? I’m sure you do! They’d love to see you too! Mon is so excited to see her older brother, she doesn’t talk about anything else!”
I was just nodding along, forgetting that such gesture serves no purpose in a phone conversation.
“I thought I could come by your house and we could spend the day together. We’ll go round Auntie Jane’s, everyone’s going to be there! What do you think? Would you like that?”
I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come out.
I didn’t know if I’d have liked that. I didn’t know what I thought.
“You still there?” The impatient tone underlined his words.
“Yeah…okay!” I said hurriedly.
“Oh yeah? So you up for it?”
“Yeah! Bye!”
I handed the phone back to Mum and ran away to my bedroom.
Was this phone call my fault? Was I being punished for listening in?
Maybe if I hadn’t picked up the phone, he wouldn’t have asked me if I wanted to see him.
There was a comic book lying closed on my bedroom floor. I sat down to find the page I’d left off. Was it page 14? Or 22? 27? Did it matter? I opened it randomly and stared at the drawings, but I couldn’t focus. Maybe if I hadn’t listened in, it wouldn’t have been him phoning.
The cartoon paperback felt like a safe escape, but every time I opened it, fragments of this story—old and new—were echoing like my dad’s voice on the phone. Familiar, yet distant.
Should I start from the beginning?
Maybe if I hadn’t picked it up, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable now.
I flipped back to page one.
I wasn’t sure how this story was going to unfold. It felt recycled, like I’d been through this before. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read it again, but a flicker of excitement pulled me forward, even as my stomach churned with dread, and I knew I’d have to.
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.
I spotted him sitting in the corner. And he wasn’t alone. I knew it. I just knew it.
With a deep sigh, I made my way across the room. He sat there with his dad—my grandpa. I liked my grandpa. He was the kind of guy who radiated happiness. Or at least that’s how I remember him. He seemed like a kind person, always laughing and cracking jokes. Most of his teeth were missing, but that never stopped him from flashing a grin.
He was a proper boozer. From what I know, he drank a lot his whole life. Spirits, beer, wine—whatever was going. He loved his coffee too, but only if it came with a splash of rum. Sometimes more rum than coffee. And if rum wasn’t on hand? Anything over 40%. My dad? Same story. Beer and spirits, mostly—but I doubt he’d ever say no to anything else.
Could alcoholism be genetic? Some say so. I don’t know.
So there they were, sitting in the corner. Grandpa waved at me with his usual grin, of course. He was happy to see me—and, to be fair, I was happy to see him too. I just wished it were under different circumstances. This was the first time I’d seen him in a pub. Actually, the first time I’d seen him anywhere other than his house. It was strangely refreshing.
I sat down with Grandpa on my left, my dad right across from me. I ordered wine and lit a cigarette. Something didn’t feel right. Suddenly these two had so much to talk about. One of those domino-effect conversations where you fall down memory lane and every story unlocks another. At first, I went with the flow. I laughed. I added the odd comment. I tried.
“So how long has he had his shop there? That must be well over 30 years now—I remember going there as a kid,” said my dad, eyes lit with nostalgia.
“Oh yes,” Grandpa nodded. “He opened it a few years before you were born. We went every morning to get fresh bread. The whole place was there—it was the only shop. And he knew everyone.”
“I remember drinking apple juice in his shop…”
Grandpa laughed. “Old Wilder had a bit of a drinking problem. He’d have a little half with most of us every morning. ‘To start the day right,’ he’d say. He didn’t want you to feel left out, so apple juice it was. But this juice… let me tell you—it sat on the shelves for years. No one would buy it.”
“I can’t stand apple juice now,” said my dad flatly.
“No wonder! That juice had a proper kick. You always made a funny face.”
“How much booze did he go through?”
“A bottle each morning, I’d say.”
“To start the day right,” they said in unison, chuckling and shaking their heads.
As time went on, my dad showed no sign of wanting to cut to the chase. I felt the frustration building. I tried to jump in. We broke the ice—so why not now? I thought I had the right. We’d agreed to meet to talk about us. But he had a different game plan. One I didn’t understand. He’d either ignore me or dismiss whatever I said.
“Your mother used to grow strawberries in the back garden. They were shit. Every year I told her to move them to the front—more sun there. But she never did,” Grandpa said.
“The strawberry dumplings she used to make! And she’d get mad when we ate the strawberries on their own!”
“Yeah, because those were from the market—expensive and bloody good.”
“Yeah… those were bloody good,” my dad echoed after a pause.
The strawberry talk ended, and all three of us sat quietly.
“Look, I know it’s been rough lately,” I blurted out, awkwardly. “I just want to know what’s going on with us?”
No answer. Grandpa was still wandering through his strawberry patch. Dad was staring into the ashtray like it had something important to say.
“You know… we hardly see each other,” I added. “We don’t call each other… that much… anymore.”
Grandpa seemed to snap out of it. Dad kept searching the ashtray for meaning.
It felt so unfair. Grandpa had no idea what this meeting was supposed to be. He’d just been dragged along. He probably thought the family was getting together. I couldn’t blame him. And I didn’t. I felt sorry for him.
But I was angry with my dad—for using him as a shield. A distraction. And for giving that ashtray more attention than his own son.
“Jesus! Can we talk?” I said, my patience fraying.
“Not now, alright?” my dad mumbled without looking up. “I need a piss.” And he left the table.
I sat there for over an hour without getting a real chance to say anything. My dad kept dodging eye contact. I could smell the guilt on him. He knew what this was about. He knew damn well. But maybe he just couldn’t face it?
“…aaah, we always had hens, but you have to keep an eye on them,” Grandpa said suddenly. “They can be pretty cheeky. And they shit everywhere.”
“So when?!” I cut him off.
“When what?” my dad asked.
“When can we talk?”
“We’ll talk later,” he said quickly, scanning our glasses. “Same again?” he asked, gesturing toward the bar.
Later. When later? He couldn’t even answer a simple question without deflecting. It was like talking to a wall. A wall that poured drinks to shut you up. The air felt thick and strange, like I was suffocating on my own frustration.
And then it got worse.
The pub doors burst open and footsteps echoed through the room. With profound heaviness, I looked up. There they were—his wife and his daughter. My sister.
Is this for real? I asked him to come on his own—and he brings the whole family? I was angry. So angry. But I didn’t want to shout. I didn’t want to fight. There was no aggression in me. I just wanted to cry. I felt helpless. I couldn’t stand it. I realized how silly I’d been—expecting to have a few drinks with my old man and actually talk things through.
For a second, I even considered flipping the page—letting it go, having fun instead. After all, this was my family. I looked around the table—Grandpa grinning, Dad clinging to his pint and staring into its depths. His wife was laughing loudly, ordering a gin and tonic. And then… there was my sister. I loved her dearly. But I wasn’t happy to see her—not right there, not right then.
The last time I saw my dad was a week before I turned 19. I remember it vividly. Our relationship was pretty shaky at that point. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and there was a significant emotional buildup—frustration, anger, and a bunch of other feelings I’m not even capable of naming.
I wanted to meet up with him to talk about us. Our relationship. I wanted to tell him so much. That I really wanted him in my life because I loved him. That even though he hardly ever sent any alimony, I didn’t want this to be about money—but I also didn’t understand why he kept promising it, yet never followed through.
I wanted to tell him I was tired of being the only one trying—always the one who texts, who calls, who asks to meet. He never picked up the phone just to say hello or what’s up? or how’s school? or do you have a girlfriend? I wanted to tell him I felt like he’d never really shown much interest in me. That he was full of big words when we spent time together, but rarely followed them through. And that whatever beef he had with Mum all those years ago didn’t have to poison our relationship.
There was so much I wanted to say. So many questions. Most of them started with why.
I was sad, angry, furious, upset, confused—and so nervous about seeing him that night. We agreed to meet up in a pub in my hometown. I really wanted us to be alone. This conversation was far too important to involve anyone else. It was about just the two of us. He promised he’d come alone. Somehow, I had a hard time believing that.
The pub he suggested was one of his old locals—he used to go there when he was young, when he was my age, when he met Mum. I’d been in once or twice before, but it just wasn’t my jam.
The night was dark. The streetlights made it possible to see just a few flickering stars in an otherwise pitch-black sky. I felt the cold; the tips of my fingers were going numb fast. Mum usually reminds me to put on gloves and a hat, but she wasn’t around that night. The collar of my thick wool jumper was itching my neck, and I felt uncomfortable. My legs were stiff, and the thin, freezing fabric of my chinos clung tightly to them. It was only a short walk to the pub, but I started shaking as soon as it appeared in sight. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or the anticipation of what might come.
And just like that, there it was—the pub.
It was one of those places tucked just below street level, so you had to go down a few steps to get in. As you descended, a big room opened up with low, arched ceilings. Dim, artificial lighting gave the place a permanent headache vibe. No music. Hardly any people. You could hear a pin drop.
There was a profound heaviness behind the few drunken eyes that briefly glanced up as the door closed behind you. But just as quickly, and with an unbothered attitude, they’d sink back into their bottomless pints.
The décor was dark and worn. Huge wooden tables sat on a thin, grey-stained carpet that barely muffled the creaky floor beneath. The walls—once bleach white—now stood yellow. And then there was the smell: cheap beer, decades of cigarette smoke, and deep-fried food, hanging in the air like old arguments.
Quiet Paragraphs 