I can travel through time. I have a little box, just big enough for me to crawl inside. I pull the tiny levers, press the little buttons—and suddenly, I’m somewhere else, in another time. My life is an adventure, filled with people and moments from different places and ages. I love this life. It feels so free, so rich with joy.

I often crawl into my little box and go back to earlier days. I meet my heroes and idols before they become great. I meet my mother when she was young. I live so many moments with them—moments they will never remember.

But sometimes, I crawl out of my little box into a place I once knew. There, I see two little girls fighting, a mother in the kitchen asking them to stop, and a father in the living room who’s fallen asleep again in front of the TV playing some old sci-fi movie. I see how the girls secretly throw angry glances at each other while their mother pretends not to notice. Two sisters who don’t yet understand how much they’ll miss these days. I walk through the house and see the big white tiger lying above the stairs with its big eyes and yarn nose. I see two small beds in opposite corners of a bedroom, the radio playing quietly, a song I had long forgotten existed. And I see an ugly night lamp sitting on a tiny table just big enough to hold it.

The apartment is filled with the sound of shouting and screams, but it’s not an ugly sound—it’s the sound of two little sisters who, right now, don’t understand how much they need each other. Or at least how much the little one needs her big sister. When I’ve taken in the whole feeling, and once again smelled the scent of my old blanket, I climb back into my little box and travel again. As I spin and whirl through time, I feel calm in my heart. There’s no one here who can stop me. I am my own person, and I hold the whole world in my hands.

My machine crackles and growls wildly, then stops—suddenly, violently. I sit in silence and watch as its light slowly fades. As I crawl out again, a violent cold hits me. I stand and look around, only to realize I’m back in the time I came from—the time I swore I’d never return to.

The lump rises in my throat, my heart sinks deep into my stomach as I turn back to my little box—and see that it’s gone. Suddenly, I’m right back where I started, and I slowly collapse. A breath catches on its way out, and then I’m back.

I try to breathe, but the air is gone. I fall to my knees, and it feels like my soul has wrapped its cold hands around my throat, trying to grant me mercy. Memories flood back—hands sliding over my skin, soft words whispered in my ear, lips meeting mine. Lips and hands now touching her skin.

A sister sits down, words pour from her mouth but I can’t catch them. My heart sinks. A man who, just a moment ago, spent his nights in my bed. And a sister who, just a moment ago, was my everything. The two memories twist and coil together into a marbled blur of colors, a new memory that makes my stomach knot and turn. The new memory laughs and whispers, pointing its accusing fingers. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. I part my lips and inhale, oxygen rushing into my lungs—and in this instant, I am alive.

I can’t help but think back to the good times behind me. All those moments when she leaned on my shoulder, and every time I held her tight and whispered in her ear, “I’ll fix this for you.” My big sister—the one I’ve always looked up to, the one who was always mine. She is the sweetest sugar and the sourest lemons blended into the most beautiful, most delicious pastry. I laugh softly as I remember all the fights and arguments, remembering how she’d yell and complain—’cause after all—I was the annoying little sister who always tagged along.

I don’t lack understanding of how the man whose name I burned from my memory fell for her beautiful exterior and wanted to taste her sweet interior. What my narrow mind can’t see or understand—no matter how I twist and turn it—is how she fell for a man who swore his life to her beloved sister. How she—who for so long loved another—turned her back, tore her life apart, for a man who can’t even begin to deserve her heart. My heart aches as I think the thought—but nevertheless, in the middle of it all—I am alive.

Suddenly, my door opens, and the little girl I once knew steps across the threshold and looks up at me with a smile. She looks into my eyes, sees the tears marking my skin, and she holds me. In her arms, I feel warm. I feel loved. I feel small again. When she lets go, I follow her movement. I stand, and suddenly I’m reminded of the cold truth. The sister I’ve always looked up to stands below me, staring up. When I reach out to hold the memory, it turns and walks away, gone forever.

No strength left, no air. I close my eyes and let the darkness hold me—the way I wish she had, before she chose him. I am back in the present, and I can no longer run.

But despite it all—for this moment—I am alive.

Love..
In a world filled with people in all different fonts, love is the most beautiful feeling. No matter your inner or outer form, your height or your size, whether you seek a simple life or an ambitious one—there will always be someone whose heart holds a place for you.

Love exists in many forms and feelings: a friend’s comforting embrace, a mother’s warm smile, a partner’s kiss. Everyone feels love in one of these ways. But romantic love is my downfall. I fall too quickly, and the feeling fades just as fast. It is genuine love—I know that. I can feel its warmth radiating through my body. But all it takes is a single misstep for that warmth to be swallowed by a dark chill.

I’m not blind to the fact that relationships and love are a fragile fruit—easily turned to a messy pulp if not handled with gentle hands. Yet even with that awareness, I still end up hurting those who hold me dear. Never by intention—but inevitably—I become their sorrow.

Relationships are an exchange of blood and bruises, healed only in each other’s arms. But I’m no longer willing to endure the pain of these new wounds. I am too covered in scars from those who came and went. I have been sought after, lusted for, used, and beaten. I am afraid—afraid I will never feel true love. Afraid I’ll be hurt again. Afraid my heart will once more be shattered. And if I am not the one broken—will I be the one who breaks them? That is nothing I could ever take joy in.

The love I long for is not the lust of today. I want to feel someone’s hands on my soul, not my body. To live in someone’s heart, not their bed. Still, there is one thought I hold close—a name carved into my heart forever. Never have I felt his eyes strip me bare. Never have I needed his forgiveness to be myself. If he were the ocean, I’d be a wave. If he were the wind, I’d be sea and shore.

How to describe the love I seek, or the love I find in him—there are no words. Only a faint beating in my heart. Even in the safe place that is his smile, fear seeks me out. If the day comes when I finally hold his heart, and my rough hands cause him sorrow, I will never forgive myself. How am I to ask him for trust when I cannot trust myself?

This fear slowly coils around my throat—like a thorned vine, digging into my skin until I can no longer breathe. A single phrase keeps spinning in my mind over and over again, and I am beside myself with terror at its meaning:

The abused becomes the abuser.