YOU ARE MY LIGHT

The first time I understood what love looked like, my father was shouting. Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but his voice was louder. I was only two, yet the fear remains sharper than memory and clearer than any lullaby. His anger filled the room like smoke—heavy, suffocating, impossible to escape. My mother didn’t scream back. She never did. She stood still, absorbing every word as though pain was something she had learned to endure. Her face was calm, but not peaceful—the calm of someone who had stopped hoping. The kind of calm that comes when you realize fighting changes nothing. That night I learned something no one had to teach me: love could wound. It could break you in places you didn’t even know existed. My father lived under the same roof, yet he felt distant, like a stranger. I never saw him hold my mother’s hand. Never heard them laugh together. Never witnessed tenderness—only sharp words and silence afterward. The space between them was filled with things unsaid: regret, exhaustion, maybe even dreams that died quietly. Nights stretched long, filled with echoes. Mornings arrived with forced smiles and pretending nothing had happened. I watched my mother carry her sadness like an invisible weight. She smiled for us. She cooked meals. She went to work. But something inside her had faded. I didn’t understand it then, but I felt it. Some nights I would hide under my blanket, pretending it could shield me from the world. I would close my eyes and imagine different families—families that laughed, families that spoke kindly, families where love felt safe. It was easier to imagine than to believe. That emptiness became a lesson. Love was not always safety. It was not always kindness. Sometimes it demanded sacrifices that left scars. Somewhere in that home, I began building a wall. Brick by brick. Quietly. Carefully. I told myself I would never repeat her story. I would never beg for affection. I would never trust words without proof. If love came, it would have to fight to reach me. Most things give up when faced with resistance. By the time I understood relationships, the wall was already tall. It kept me safe. It kept me distant. When boys texted sweet things, I analyzed every message—searching for hidden meanings and lies. Compliments felt suspicious. Interest felt temporary. I waited for disappointment because it always came eventually. Even if I liked him. Even if my heart beat a little faster. Especially then. Feelings are dangerous, I convinced myself. They make you vulnerable. Vulnerable people get hurt. I preferred control. I preferred distance. Ironically, I loved romantic dramas. I watched fictional couples fall in love. I cried at their struggles. I believed in their happiness while doubting my own chances. It made no logical sense—how could I adore love on screen but fear it in reality? Because fiction never abandons you. Stories end, but characters remain whole. Real life is different. Real love demands risk. It asks you to lower your guard. To trust. To believe. I was not ready for that. So I stayed behind my wall. Safe. Silent. Unreachable. Until the day I met him. The kind of man I thought only existed in dramas. A man with a smile that felt genuine. The kind of man who didn’t ask for permission before stepping into my life. And without even realizing it… he was already testing the strength of the walls around my heart.