Chapter One
The Beginning Of Me
Entry 0 · Nora — six years ago
Hey there, reader. Can I ask you something? Have you ever hurt someone? Maybe it was intentional, maybe not — but the hurt was real, wasn’t it? And maybe you didn’t notice, but each time you hurt a person, you’re hurting those who care about them too. The ones who rely on them.
Imagine a nest of baby birds, beaks open, waiting for a mother who won’t return. They once had a mother who fed them, kept them safe. But now they lie there — little skeletons of life, still waiting. Maybe she never meant to leave, but something pulled her away, something beyond her control.
That’s how it is with us, isn’t it? We argue, we fight, push to be right. But sometimes, in all our struggling, we hurt people — sometimes the very people who needed us most.
Arguing does not decide who’s right. It decides who’s left.
So, I ask: why not be the sun for someone? Why not be the reason someone smiles? I know — maybe the world has hurt you, maybe it’s a dangerous place. I get it. But you still step outside every day, knowing that anything could happen. It takes courage, doesn’t it?
You are the only “you” there will ever be. You can be the sun that lights up someone’s day, or the moon that promises peace in the darkest night.
This story I’m sharing? It’s about my sun and my moon — Max and Dice.
They say you can only fall in love once, but I’ve never believed that. Love is an emotion too big for one moment, too complex for one word. And this is my story of love.
Entry 1 · Nora — five years ago
Raindrops splatter across my shirt, soaking through until the fabric clings, heavy and cold against my skin. It’s that kind of rain that makes everything stick to you — where your clothes wrap around you like a second skin, and you feel sticky and cold on the inside. But I keep walking. I don’t have a choice; my home is far, and there’s no one waiting with an umbrella.
I stayed up all night finishing that group assignment. My group members are probably still out celebrating, laughing at some party. They’ll steal the glory again, just like always, and I’ll smile — not because I’m naïve, but because I don’t want anyone to fail. So, I’ll let them have it, again.
Home greets me with the familiar sound of shattering glass, another bottle breaking in the dark. I see my mother huddled in the corner, a shadow in the kitchen light. Her eyes flick toward me, and I brace myself. Her voice is hard, but beneath it, I hear something else: Why are you late? It’s worry, masked as anger — anger at the world, but mostly at the things she can’t change — him, and everything he’s taken from her.
I don’t tell her the story. I just smile, the same way I do with my group, and say, “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” Because it doesn’t matter if I’m right or wrong. She’s still my mother, and sometimes love means letting go of your need to be understood.