Page 8 of Paper Thin Love

His pain is palpable. I feel a twisted satisfaction seeing him suffer, like a conqueror watching a once-untouchable empire burn.

Tragic yet powerful. They go hand in hand. There’s always hope in the ashes of destruction. Rebirth.

I wonder what my father and I will build now that our relationship is irrevocably shattered.

“I’m not. I’m hollow.” He clears his throat, his voice hardening.“Don’t mention your mother again.”

“Why?” I shout, the frustration making me jerk, wishing I could leap from the bed.

“Why what?” Dad growls, his hand slipping from the frame and back into his pocket.

“Why continue living, then?” Why aren’t you breaking down like I am?

“Your answer lies in a mirror, son,” he replies with a heavy sigh, and then he leaves.

I watch his shadow slowly retreat from my room, like the sands in an hourglass marking the end of our time.

I snort derisively.“A mirror. There’s no fucking way you’re living because of me, Dad.”

That’s what he meant. Me, the son, he can’t even look in the eye.

What a fucking joke.

Chapter 4

Mila

I’m one of those freaks who loves watching cream swirl into coffee. I admit I’ve filmed and photographed it more times than I should confess.

There’s something mesmerizing about two opposing forces merging, forced to become one—hot and cold, acidic and sweet.

It’s tragic yet poetic, almost like a lover's final sigh.

It’s calming, and I’m sure if lava lamps were in style again, I would have a dozen perched around my dorm room.

I wish the spiraling sight in front of me were a nice hot cup of coffee. Instead, it's blood and water dancing and spinning until they vanish down the drain.

I tilt my body forward, hoping to be engulfed by the drain. My only wish is to fade away from this world.

Pushing back, I absorb the scene and release a heavy exhale from my lungs.

I don’t know why I did this. The first time I cut myself was an accident. I was simply sewing the elastic ribbons onto my ballet shoes when the needle accidentally pierced my skin. Of course, it hurt, but then… it made me feel in control. Something I had never tasted before.

So I pricked myself again, just like I did now.

I know it’s bad.But it’s just a little prick of a needle. It’s not like I’m actually cutting myself.

The road to destruction always starts peaceful, small and narrow, comforting, but then it opens wide and you find you lost the path entirely.

Okay,‘bad’is an understatement. I have a problem.

That also means I fit in with the rest of the kids at my boarding school. We’re all fucked up in one way or another.

It’s just a phase I will grow out of. I’ll get tired of it, and eventually, I’ll fall back in line and be the perfect little angel my father thinks I am.

Pain doesn’t scare me, and neither does seeing blood. Ballerinas look so graceful, so strong yet delicate, so muscular yet flexible. Everything about us is a contradiction.

Everything about my life is.

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