she remembered the first time her father hit the bottom of a bottle harder than he’d ever held her. she was seven, her mother barely gone, and he’d already started unraveling. grief turned into anger, then into something more dangerous — an addiction to anything that dulled the pain, even if it meant leaving her alone in their crumbling house.

poverty became her constant companion, gnawing at the edges of her childhood. empty cabinets, secondhand clothes, and the humiliation of school lunches she couldn’t afford. but it was the loneliness that stung the worst. she didn’t just lose her mother; she lost every chance to feel safe, to feel loved.

her father’s words were sharp, his moods unpredictable. sometimes he’d cry and promise to do better, but the high or the hangover always came first. she learned to tiptoe around him, to grow up fast and fend for herself.

then there was riki. they met in high school when her walls were at their highest. he was a burst of warmth she didn’t know how to handle, always laughing, always kind. she tried to keep him at a distance, afraid to let someone see the mess of her life. but riki was persistent. he walked her home, shared his lunch when she skipped hers, and never stopped asking if she was okay.

he was the first person who made her feel seen.

the night she left wasn’t dramatic — no yelling, no slamming doors. her father was passed out in the living room, surrounded by bottles, and she quietly slipped away. she didn’t cry. she didn’t look back.

riki’s apartment wasn’t much, but it was home in a way nothing else had ever been. he didn’t ask questions or push her to talk. instead, he gave her the space to heal, to breathe. when she woke up screaming from nightmares, he was there, holding her until she remembered she wasn’t trapped anymore.

she was far from okay, but riki didn’t mind. he loved her in her brokenness, and for the first time, she thought maybe she could love herself, too.