I'm done being “understanding.”I’ve had enough of the whole “smiling while someone else falls apart and calls it character.”I’m over men—starting with my father—who expect every woman in their orbit to play interpreter, therapist, or emotional janitor.
I’m not your confessional.I’m not your redemption arc.I’m not a goddamn container for your regrets.
And I’m not your second chance if you couldn’t love me right the first time.You asked who I’m mad at.
I’m mad at every man who told me I was “too much” after draining everything out of me.
I’m mad at a culture that romanticizes broken boys and punishes angry girls.I’m mad at being asked to stay calm when I’ve never been given peace.
I’m mad that I still want love even though I’ve seen how it leaves.
I’m mad because even now, even here, part of me wonders if I’ve said too much.If I’ve made you uncomfortable.If I’ve burned the bridge instead of lighting the truth.
And you know what?
If it rattled you, good.
I’ve rattled myself.
Maybe that’s what waking up feels like after a lifetime of being polite.
So, yeah.The fire stays.It doesn’t go out after the last track.
It walks with me.
Tonight, I’m not ashamed of it, and if by any chance anyone tries to make me feel ashamed, I’ll just write them off.I’m fucking done.
The music ...it’ll stay with me.I’ll write it for me and share it with those who deserve it.
ChapterFifteen
Kit
May 2nd, 1997
I alphabetize when I need control.
Most people drink coffee.Or wine.Or sweat it out at the gym.I rearrange entire sections of my shop.
Jazz when I’m anxious.Broadway cast recordings when I’m angry.
Today?It’s soundtracks.
Which says absolutely everything about my state of mind.
I’ve just slippedDirty Dancingback into D—one of those compulsive motions I don’t even register anymore—when I spot it.A vinyl that’s definitely out of place.Simple Minds’ EP—Don’t You (Forget About Me).It’s an original pressing from 1985.One corner bent, like it got caught in the wrong memory.Price tag has faded into a pale orange curl that’s barely hanging on.
The cover doesn’t even try to impress—washed-out faces, fonts fat with attitude.But the moment I touch it, the opening synth hits me right in the ribs.That slow, moody rise, all nerves and anticipation.Then the drums—perfectly timed—like a heartbeat pretending to be fine.Just like that, Judd Nelson’s fist is in the air.Victory without certainty.
The Breakfast Club.
I must’ve watched the movie twenty times on VHS.Maybe more, especially when I couldn’t sleep and popcorn was my dinner during late-night replays.
I didn’t get it when I was ten, but I loved the music.I loved it at thirteen because Jude was my awakening to liking boys.I judged it at sixteen.
And now?Now I think I understand it in a way I wish I didn’t.
It’s not a movie about teenagers.It’s about silence.About how none of us truly say what we mean—until the credits roll and we’re out of time.
