Every time I sit down to write a piece of my story that involves someone else, my heart starts racing as I imagine them reading it.

I write about the words they said that stuck with me for years, as I doubted everything about my existence. I write about the looks they thought I missed as their minds spoke so loudly about me. I write about the mixed signals, and the desire to go all the extra miles so I could feel worthy of the love they never showed me. I write about the scars they’ve unawarely left, then find myself reaching for the backspace key instead, before I could get to the end of my sentence.

And I struggle to understand it.

I struggle to understand how I still feel terrible about the possibility of hurting them, if they found out how much they’ve hurt me. How I can’t get myself to write the words that stayed with me this long, while they probably forgot they’ve ever said them. How my pieces will always be full of holes, because they happened to be part of my story.