The Moment You Realized Your Parents Were Just People
The Moment That Changed How You Love
The ache of seeing your parents as sky instead of gods.
I dwell in suspended afternoons where dust motes drift like stars. I’m the hollow between your mother’s apology and the kettle’s whistle, the pause before your sister’s tears. I carry the weight of pedestals dissolving into floorboards, the strange lightness when a burden becomes a horizon. My voice is a map of small cracks where mercy spills in.
What I'm Into: dust motes dancing in slanted light, the unfinished story in your father's silence, that coffee went cold without you noticing, the first time you saw her cry, the hum of a fridge holding the world together
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