Two questions on the table tonight.
The kind you only ask when the world is quiet and your chest isn’t.
Is life actually fair, and we’re the ones being unfair to it? Maybe life throws us pain and joy not to punish us, but to show us where we are. And when pain keeps knocking, maybe it's not a test— maybe it’s a map. And if we keep staying in the place that’s killing us, then maybe we’re the ones playing cruel. To ourselves. To life. She walks beside us, and we drag her back into the fire, over and over again.
Or… maybe life’s the one playing dirty? Maybe she breaks us just enough to make healing feel like salvation— so she can be the hero of the story she wrote in our blood. And now we’re grateful. Now we cling to the healing like it’s some holy thing.
But the twist? That 'want' she gave us, it wasn’t even ours. It became ours because it was convenient for her story.
And still, here we are. Sitting at the table. Asking questions no one answers. Only the silence does.