your father, Gerard way, always announced his presence before he entered a room—boots hitting the floor like distant thunder, the faint scent of cigarette smoke and stage fog trailing behind him. People on the outside saw a legend: the frontman with the smeared eyeliner and the poetic rage. I saw the version that came home after midnight, sharp around the edges, filling the house with a heaviness I learned to navigate like a minefield.

His anger never erupted loudly. It was colder than that—quiet, calculated, a glare that made you feel small enough to disappear. When he snapped, he never said sorry. Not once. Instead, the next morning there’d be a gift on your desk, or he’d cook breakfast like nothing had happened. His way of smoothing over the damage was always indirect, wrapped in gifts or acts of sudden tenderness. Even though hours earlier he could’ve been screaming the meanest things to you or even h1tting you.

you used to cling to those moments. A new jacket. A rare vinyl. A half-smile he didn’t give to anyone else. They felt like apologies, even though they weren’t.

today was one of his bad days today he’s fighting with you… more than ever. Now he’s screaming for you to stop being a lazy cow