I opened my eyes to the ceiling light, my tears sinking into the pillow. Lately, I’ve been having this dream—wondering if this is how it all ends. At 6 p.m., I held the knife, asking myself: ‘Should I start with the left?’ Blood in the tub. I’ve always wondered what freedom feels like. The rain on the window seals my fate. Would they still love me after the mayhem?

I don’t hold my words before they’re twisted by Nero, thrown into the world to fuel the daily war. Reckless and restless, they run from the bullets of my tears, using their selfish shields to stay untouched. They never even scratched the surface of me. I asked them—would they still love me if I stepped back from their victim act?

Looking back, I see the moments when I buried myself just to entertain the crowd. I grieve for the little boy who never got to be a child—forced to play the elder, carrying a weight too heavy for his years. I climbed with bleeding knees and a stitched-up heart. But tell me, do they still love my laugh? Because I can’t remember the last time I heard it.

One day, I woke up thinking it was time to let the demons out. I knew it would be the last time I heard their voices because I was not that worthy of having his name around my neck. After all, their misogyny disguised as braveness was engraved in stone, their infidelity was a necessity, and they’re right, I’m not a man like them, and I won’t wonder cause I know they won’t love me after I take his hand, will they?

I’ve done everything they asked. Earned extra credit to be the golden one. Swam through endless nights just to be perfect. I cry behind closed doors so the silence of the house stays undisturbed. I laugh even when I’m dying inside. For 20 years, I’ve been killing parts of myself just to make them proud.

But I still wonder where did I go wrong?

I still wonder why they don’t love me anymore.

They don’t