I am scared of 7th August.
The day I was born but also lost.
15 years ago came the night I regreted being born at all.
At sharp 12 am, I stood so small.
“Go ahead,” I said, “hit me again.”
And he did.
A slap for a gift.
A wound where joy should’ve been.
So I stopped celebrating.
I stopped pretending.
What’s the point of marking a day
that only reminds me
I came into this world
just to be hurt again?
And then—you came.
With light in your voice and warmth in your laugh.
You stitched my soul in little ways.
Made birthdays feel like they could stay.
Camping trips. Poolside talks.
Just simple things, and silent walks.
But to me, they were life again.
And slowly, slowly, I whispered,
“Thank God she hasn’t left me yet.”
For years I waited to feel safe.
You made me believe I finally was.
You weren’t just a friend.
You were a vow,
a constant,
A place for me- I never thought I would have.
So when I asked you—gently—
to just call my parents
and let them hear the joy in your voice,
I wasn’t asking for a parade.
I was asking for respect.
For remembrance.
That you too were family.
But you didn’t call.
And when I bled honesty—
you flipped the script, and called me unkind.
And now,
on the day that once brought bruises,
and then briefly brought hope,
I am back to the place
I promised myself I’d never return.
Except now, the ache is louder.
Because you knew.
You knew what that slap meant.
You knew I had stopped celebrating.
You were the one who taught me to smile again.
And then you left.
Without a goodbye.
It wasn't abandonment
It was cruelty wrapped in imprisonment.
You turned your back—
and now the best friend who helped me stand
has become the reason
I’ve fallen harder,
Much more shattered than I ever did before.
---- Dedicated to someone I trusted to never leave. The one who was my best friend, my family.