1d
She always helped people.
She had learned early that it made them like her.
She gave smiles, advice, her time, her heart— pieces of herself to make others whole.
Her friends grew close.
They traded secrets for hers.
It was always an exchange.
Her help for their affection.
She quickly understood:
She could make anyone like her.
So she helped more,
even when no one asked,
because happy people made her happy.
Happiness felt transactional—
she gave something to get something in return.
She could always find a problem.
She could always fix it.
Sometimes the piece she gave wasn’t good enough.
It didn’t completely cover their holes.
So she would cut another piece to make up for it.
She thought love worked the same way:
If she gave enough, people would love her.
It became her purpose.
Some holes were too big to fill,
and her pieces weren’t enough.
So she gave more.
And more.
Until the holes in her became too large to ignore.
One day, she looked at her reflection.
The gaping holes stared back.
She was frayed at the edges.
Her fabric was threadbare.
She unraveled herself into ***** of string, delicate, painful pieces of her past:
the split homes,
the distant father,
the overwhelmed mother,
the detached brother.
She pulled it all out,
thinking no one would want those parts.
Those who cared told her to stop.
“Piece yourself back together,” they said.
It made her angry.
She didn’t know how.
Still, she tried.
Slowly, she began sewing the fragments.
At first, the stitches were uneven.
Her hands shook.
The thread snapped.
She sewed anyway.
She learned the difference between giving and losing.
Between helping and sacrificing.
Between love and transactions.
She discovered that her worth didn’t come from being needed.
That love wasn’t something she had to earn.
That her purpose wasn’t to patch others at her own expense.
One day, she looked at her reflection again.
The holes were still there,
but they were smaller now.
She had filled them with care,
not with pieces torn away.
She wasn’t whole yet,
but she wasn’t unraveling either.
And for the first time,
That was enough.
She had learned early that it made them like her.
She gave smiles, advice, her time, her heart— pieces of herself to make others whole.
Her friends grew close.
They traded secrets for hers.
It was always an exchange.
Her help for their affection.
She quickly understood:
She could make anyone like her.
So she helped more,
even when no one asked,
because happy people made her happy.
Happiness felt transactional—
she gave something to get something in return.
She could always find a problem.
She could always fix it.
Sometimes the piece she gave wasn’t good enough.
It didn’t completely cover their holes.
So she would cut another piece to make up for it.
She thought love worked the same way:
If she gave enough, people would love her.
It became her purpose.
Some holes were too big to fill,
and her pieces weren’t enough.
So she gave more.
And more.
Until the holes in her became too large to ignore.
One day, she looked at her reflection.
The gaping holes stared back.
She was frayed at the edges.
Her fabric was threadbare.
She unraveled herself into ***** of string, delicate, painful pieces of her past:
the split homes,
the distant father,
the overwhelmed mother,
the detached brother.
She pulled it all out,
thinking no one would want those parts.
Those who cared told her to stop.
“Piece yourself back together,” they said.
It made her angry.
She didn’t know how.
Still, she tried.
Slowly, she began sewing the fragments.
At first, the stitches were uneven.
Her hands shook.
The thread snapped.
She sewed anyway.
She learned the difference between giving and losing.
Between helping and sacrificing.
Between love and transactions.
She discovered that her worth didn’t come from being needed.
That love wasn’t something she had to earn.
That her purpose wasn’t to patch others at her own expense.
One day, she looked at her reflection again.
The holes were still there,
but they were smaller now.
She had filled them with care,
not with pieces torn away.
She wasn’t whole yet,
but she wasn’t unraveling either.
And for the first time,
That was enough.
