The Promise

“When you need a friend, don’t look to a stranger, ‘cause you know in the end, I’ll always be there.”

For KBP — “Ohways”

I still don’t know how I got through it.

Looking back now, I wonder what people must’ve thought — those on the outside, watching from the edges of our story. Maybe they pitied me. Maybe they didn’t even notice. But when you love someone that deeply, your world doesn’t look the same anymore. Your vision narrows. Everything else fades out, and all you see is them — and the hope that somehow, you’ll both make it through.

That was all I wanted: for both of us to make it out. Together.

We were always heading in the same direction — just at different speeds. I tried to avoid the detours, the speed bumps. He crashed through them like he needed the wreckage. I wanted to keep us steady. He didn’t seem to know how. But no matter how messy it got, no matter how many times I wanted to run — and believe me, there were many — I never stopped loving him.

Even when I couldn’t stand him.
Even when I couldn’t be near him.
Even when I had nothing left to give.

The love never left.
It still hasn’t.
Maybe it never will.

We grew up differently — not in wealth, but in how we were shaped.

My parents divorced before I started kindergarten. For most of my life, it was just me and my mom. I had a relationship with my dad, but as I got older, the distance between us became more than just miles. I wanted him around. I was angry that he wasn’t. And I resented my mom’s new husband, simply because he wasn’t the one I wanted there.

I learned how to be alone before I learned how to be with people. And truthfully, I liked it. I was happier in my room with a book or building lives in The Sims than at the mall with friends or lingering outside movie theaters like everyone else. I played along sometimes — mostly because my mom and stepdad insisted I “do normal teenage things.” But even when I was out, I was counting the minutes until I could go home.

I blame Daria — the show, for anyone who grew up in the ‘90s — for my cynicism. Or maybe I just always had a skewed lens when it came to people. I never made much effort to truly connect. I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust anyone to stay. In my world, stability was temporary. So I kept my distance. I always assumed things — people, love, safety — would eventually leave. And most of the time, they did.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t laugh, or love, or have fun. My childhood wasn’t tragic. It just wasn’t… easy. And happiness? I’ve never been sure I know what that’s supposed to feel like. I think I’ve always had to work harder for it than most. A lot of the time, I faked it. Even now, I wonder if I’m doing it right.

For me, happiness looks like calm. A good movie. My cats curled up beside me. I know that sounds small, but it’s enough — most of the time. Still, I get this feeling that I should want more. I just don’t know what more is.

As I keep telling this story, I know I’ll look back and realize I really did live. A lot happened. So much, in fact, that sometimes the memories blur together, like my brain softened the edges on purpose. A kind of self-protection.

If I remembered it all clearly, I think it would break me.

I’m still moving forward — but I haven’t stopped looking in the rearview mirror. Some things are worth remembering.

Even the painful ones.