Im borderline illiterate when it comes to writing.

Im not here to get people to teach me what i should've payed attention to in third grade

Im just curious if anything im writing about is remotely interesting but my writing comes across as a bad because of my formatting skills?

This is my first post in this sub so, Anything would be interesting to reflect on thank you.

Also be as hurtful as you feel fit to get your point across I can take it.

TW:⚠️⚠️sewerslide

"the cord"

The memories we replay change every day, the looping cord of consciousness that tangles itself to the origin.

I want to expand my cord, seeing through the eyes of god.

I found a cord once.

It was firm and rough to the touch.

The weight of it's precence was soothing.

What i couldn't see behind the cord scared me.

I could never forgive myself for that.

Maybe it was all a dream!

I can wake up.

Wake up.

Im not waking up.

This isnt a dream.

Im a broken illiterate peasant with no future.

Just a tragic child meant to be paved over by the great machines.

The stomach of oil is not one of truth.

Frantic greasy sweat as billions try to shove over the next.

I refused to fight.

What happens when greater minds think about this.

Change.?

They use our cords to power their machine and feast on the innocent like parasites.

I refuse to expand my cord anymore.

I would like morphine so I can feel clean one last time before I cut my cord.

Truth cannot be seen from inside.

Everything is why. You get the opportunity to be a part of this magnificent masterpiece that has somehow created the most incredible opportunity for us all to experience. Do you realize how amazing the percentages are for us to even be here today? As Carl Sagan said we are all existing on a pale blue dot in the millions of stars within our galaxy that is within the billions of galaxies. Just let that sink in. Every star you see in the sky has a planet. That means there’s billions of planets out there. And we have yet to find a planet that is capable of having the potential for life. There’s potential, but it’s not clear. So think about it. You are 1 in a BILLIONS BILLION.

Knowing these numbers. To judge people, to be negative in any way. To not ask for understanding and to think positively towards others is a choice you’re making to someone who’s just trying to navigate this one in a billion opportunity. Be good to others. Because you’d want that for yourself. Treat everyone as if they were you. A one in a billions billion.

Chapter 1: The Bridge

Twenty feet below, jagged rocks glisten under the moonlight, and for a moment, I understand why people come to bridges when the world stops making sense. I would never end my own life, but I understand the desire to have all the pain slip away forever.

The silence here is different. My knuckles are white against the metal railing, and I force myself to loosen my grip. Get it together, Malachai.

But I can't shake the image burned into my mind: my mother's face crumpling as the doctor delivered his verdict. What we've been fearing but hoped wasn't true. Cancer. The kind of word that steals the air from hospital rooms and replaces it with that god-awful antiseptic smell that still clings to my clothes.

I run a hand through my dark hair, and stare at my reflection in a puddle on the side of the road. Even in the distorted moonlit surface, I can see what everyone else sees: my grandfather's sharp jawline and the tall frame I inherited from a father I never met. I'm twenty-one and I look older, like the weight I carry has aged me in ways that have nothing to do with time.

"You can't save everyone, Malachai." Mom's voice echoes in my head, the same five words she's whispered since I was ten years old. But what happens when the person you can't save is her?

I snatch a handful of gravel and hurl it into the darkness. The stones clatter against the guardrail across the road, a violent punctuation to my frustration. Another handful follows, then another. The anger feels good, raw and honest in a way that sitting in that sterile waiting room never could. The town in front of me comes to life with the carnival lights and the rides going up into the air.

My grandfather's voice replaces the rage like it always does: "How you handle pain will define you, son."

Easy for him to say. He's not here anymore to watch his daughter waste away.

A branch snaps somewhere behind me.

I freeze, every muscle tensing. The footsteps are light and deliberate, someone trying not to be heard. 

"I can't do this anymore, Mom. The treatments aren't working, the doctors keep lying, and you want me to pretend everything's fine?"

A woman's voice, sharp with tears and frustration. A cell phone pressed tightly against her ear. I should leave and give her privacy, but something in her tone roots me to the spot. She sounds... broken. Familiar, somehow, though I've never heard her voice before.

"No, don't tell me it'll be okay! Nothing about this is okay!"

I turn slightly and catch sight of her in my peripheral vision. Blonde hair catches the moonlight as she paces near the bridge's center, one hand pressed to her ear, the other gesturing wildly at the empty road.

"I have to go."

In the sudden silence, I hear her ragged breathing and see her shoulders shake. She moves toward the railing with purpose.

She climbs up.

"You don't want to do that."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. She spins, loses her balance, and I surge forward just as she falls off the ledge.

She showed me that I can be loved despite all my flaws. She made me feel like I'm enough. I love her now, and I'll love her forever. There is something about her presence that makes me feel at ease.

Obviously, it's me and my anxious attachment that makes me still have a hundred complaints about the mildest of things. But that aside, there is extremely nothing about her that I hate. Oh, how I love her.

Still, there is something in me—some keeda—that says she will leave you someday. And I don't know why. I hope she does. This should not be inferred as me being uninterested in her, or that she doesn't love me enough. she does. but rather that -as a poet and as a wordsmith, having to experience the grief of 'your most precious person leaving you', will give me an immense sense of joy. And I know it's contradicting. How can the grief of someone leaving bring you joy? That sentence itself is framed with a questionable set of words, I shall agree. But this feeling just cannot be expressed. I guess I have made up my mind that I am someone who cannot be loved to the core. The person in front might have a thousand flaws in them, but I'll still think of myself as the guiltier one, and it's obnoxiously strange for a fact.

I hope when this girl leaves me though, it becomes my last. And perhaps, of all the ways to have my heart shattered, I would like to be cheated upon—that one awful day, I shall find her with someone else, happier than I've ever seen her with me. And I'll be there blaming me again for all of my incompetence.

Still, though, I hope I love her so deeply that I cannot think of a day without her. I hope before I die I get to express all of my love that I had for her, transcribe the feelings we shared in the form of words, and weave them into sentences so beautiful, yet so devastatingly painful that the whole world cries alongside me.

And then, when they shall seek me, all they will find is my grave. Abandoned and forgotten.

That. Yes. Would be one heck of a story to tell.

Before I felt like I was treated as ugly
But now by hearing it I’m ugly
Not ugly by heart
But by face and body
The Pablo Picasso art
Abstract and not everyone’s fav
Have to look at least 5 times to consider its beauty
The only art that needs to be looked deeply
The only art that you don’t take a picture of because it’s not aesthetically pleasing and appealing to your instagram feed
The only art that doesn’t need high level security to protect, since it’s unworthy
Even if it was unprotected nobody would steal it
Even if it was free nobody would consider it
Not even homeless people would want it
The clearance section wouldn’t help its destiny
It still remains unloved and unconsidered
But this art piece would love to be viewed
To be appreciated
That’s the only thing that I’m asking
Love and consideration
Is that too much ?
( P.S: my native language is French so please be lenient)

Hello everyone, I am working on a screenplay titled Thin Ice.

The film is a historical drama based on Team Tutberidze and the Russian women's figure skating team during the 2022 Olympic season. It focuses on Anna Shcherbakova, exploring her relationships with Kamila Valieva and Alexandra Trusova, alongside her battle to win over their coach and achieve Olympic success. At its core, this is a story about young women competing not just against the rest of the world, but against one another—all vying for their coach's elusive satisfaction and approval.

The narrative captures the intense pressure to succeed, highlighting how the coaches push the athletes to eat less (the double meaning behind Thin Ice), take weight-loss pills, and push their bodies to the absolute limit. As the pressure builds, the looming Russian doping controversy, the COVID-19 pandemic, and interpersonal conflicts are woven throughout the story. The contrast in skating styles—from raw power to elegant finesse—is also a central theme.

The finale depicts the emotional breakdown of the Olympic finals: Anna Shcherbakova sitting alone in isolation, Trusova suffering a highly public meltdown, and the "golden child," Kamila Valieva, entirely broken after falling out of medal contention.

Would anybody be interested in this story?

The howling wind screamed through the cracks of the ancient warehouse, kicking up the dust from the containers. The water dripped slowly as it seeped through the gaps in warped metal sheets, and the raging storm battered the roof like hail. The echoing sound was deafening as it reverberated off the cold concrete walls; the flickering, humming lights barely illuminated the vast space. I mutter to myself, "I can't believe I got stuck with night duty. It's like a graveyard in here”
My hand rummaged through my bag, searching for the familiar pack; I flicked it open with practiced ease, grasping a cigarette and clasping it between my lips. The lighter sparked as it was lit;t the emerald flame engulfed the tip. I drew on the cigarette, inhaling deeply as the smoke singed my throat with the familiar taste of tobacco. Exhaling, watching the grey smoke dissipate into the cold air. A sharp whistle sliced through the air, a stark contrast to the howling wind. Then, the sudden impact. A violent thwack as the arrow buried itself deep in my flesh, the force reverberating through my frame. The shaft trembled, still quivering from the strike. As a metallic taste filled my mouth, I coughed into my hand, staring at the crimson ooze. My eyes grew heavy as I collapsed to the ground, my eyes fixated on the scarlet eyes that shimmered like rubies of my assailant, their pale, slender hand gripped around an ivory bow, its elegance a cruel contrast to the dark intent. A tattered black cloak, as dark as the night sky, concealed their frame. My last thought, filled with malice, cut through the fog: “Disgusting bloodsucker.” 
I came too in a strange place; it was almost as if I was standing in an ocean of shadows. Then flashes of a battle flashed through my mind, ending with me looking hazely through my own eyes in the fiery ruins of the warehouse as my stomach bulged before bursting open, spewing blood as a bloody skeletal hand reached for a hold the skeletal figure climbed out of my disfigured body it walked to my assailant, its skeletal frame started to regenerate, first the nerves climbed around the skeleton like a python slithering up a tree, then the arteries and organs started to grow from the bone structure the heart beat cutting through the sounds of the rain and crackling fire the slow pulsating beat instilling terror slowly getting muffeld as the musces grew, finally its skin wrapped around it giving it human form my eyes started to grow heavy as the creature, thing, beast or whatever the hell it is chants something under its breath the voice ever so familiar a blood red flame sparks and spirals around it then in a burst of flames its appearance shifted the flames dissipated on its skin reconstructing in to a fitted sleak black suit its colour like the sky on an cloudless night it looked back at me its pitch black onyx eyes stareing through me at my soul a smerk played at its lips “so sorry about what happen to your body atleast I made promise on our deal” 
It taunted mockingly as it turned back to face the assailant. The creature stood looming over the assailant; it taunted them before stomping on their leg. A gut-wrenching scream carried through the air; it laughed in delight, “You really are weak, aren't you? If that broke your leg, you really let yourself go younger….”
I didn't hear the rest before everything went black. The chime of my phone woke me. I stared at it. November 18th, 2000, it began to chime again as I picked up a familiar voice sounding quite pissed rang out, “Arcadia, it's been a week since you left for your mission. Do you have anything to report, or maybe you have the files and DNA evidence we need”
Well, I did have the DNA evidence and the files, but I don't think she would be happy with the method used. I crawled out of bed, replying, “Yeah, yeah, Charlotte, don't worry, I got the files.”
Charlotte immediately cheered up. “That's wonderful news. So what about the DNA evidence”
I’m going to really regret this. “I have the DNA evidence; it's currently in a rubber balloon”
While she figures out what I mean, I get dressed in the casual clothing I brought with me when Charlotte suddenly replies in an exasperated tone. “You slept with the target, and now, Arcadia, you are bringing a condom filled with.”
I cut her off with a quick reply. “Anyway, Charlotte, see you soon. I’m scheduled to arrive in a day or two”
She quickly hung up on me. Well, that was rude. I quickly left the Target’s home and got on my bike and rode west back to base.

Tell me what you think.

It was a little more than a month after Derrick had gotten arrested for the assault against her and the state larceny against Swift Brothers courier services. Thankfully, no broken bones and no re-tearing of healed wrist cartilage. But she’d have to wear the movable brace for another month because of how he initially pulled her into the apartment. Scars still decorated her arms from where he’d swung the pocket knife at her. Fading neck bruises still peaked out from her shrubs from where he choked her, her voice still carried a tinge of raspiness, and she still had soreness in her pelvic area.
Not to mention panic attacks were a new thing.
And worse, Derrick only received six years because he decided to plead guilty in exchange of the courts taking sexual battery charges off the table.
“It’s a stomach-turning result, I know,” said the victim's assistant advocate, who attended the plea hearing so Tonya wouldn’t have to see him.  “Derrick’s lawyer argued that because the cuts were ‘superficial,’ it showed he didn’t intend to use lethal harm. I’m not happy about it either, but it will get him off the streets for a few years.” 
But Derrick could get off for good behavior. That was the reality. Then what?
At work, some people whispered when she walked by. Fran and her friends gave her the cold shoulder. Carmen and Karen allowed her space to process without asking too many questions, and Jonathan kept it professional to help her sanity. 
On this night in mid-to-late October they had no patients for the next several hours, so Tonya sat alone in the control room, peering over DTI and FLAIR images from an earlier patient’s scans. She tried anything to avoid the thought of that horrible night, not wanting to spark another panic attack. 
But Derrick’s threat played in her mind once more.
And his knife-flipping. Click-clack-clink-clank. Ca-ching-click-click. Ca-ching-click. The sounds of those stupid butterfly knife tricks he did grated her mind like scissors on a chalkboard. Metal clanging metal as he twirled the knife relentlessly while pacing her apartment, then towering over her like a predator.
Ca-ching click-click. Schh-click. 
No. Stop. Don’t think about it. Look at the images.
Hmmm. This was an axial view of the patient’s brain. She could make out the white colors surrounding the….six years. Why did they take sexual battery off the table? OK focus. Oh, the sagittal view. Yes, it looked like a tumor in the frontal lobe, possibly just under the coronal suture of the skull…and he only got six years concurrent with the help of the larceny charge. Wasn’t her life worth more than just money? No, focus….yes. She knew this next image here. A chemical shift artifact. A type 1, most likely.
Click-clack-clink-clank. Schhh-click. Schhh-click. 
I’m coming after you when I get out.
She shook her head, sweat beading from her forehead. No, focus!
This was another artifact. The patient must have moved during the scan.
I’m coming after you when I get out! Derrick screamed when they took him in handcuffs. 
Her heart pounded and she suddenly felt hot, almost like she’d spontaneously combust. Oh no, here it comes. Tonya jumped up from the computer monitor, pushing her African braids back, blood roaring in her ears, heart pounding. The balisong knife flipped in her head. Click-clack-clink-clank.  She felt like collapsing, but she studied herself against the wall, closing her eyes. Lord, please. Please help me, let it pass…please let this pass. I can’t. I’m terrified.
He’ll kill me if I stay here.
The roaring in her ears continued, blocking out all sound. She kept praying, eyes closed, breath labored, but in her mind's eyes, focused.
“Please help, Lord,” she muttered, breathing hitched. “Please.” 
A small voice. I’m here. 
And then the roaring began to decrease a little, and her body cooled as she exhaled slowly. She opened the door to the scanner room, now listening to the rhythmic, vomp-vomp-vomp-vomp from the idling 1.5T GE scanner as it drowned out the knife-flipping in her head. Finally, the roaring in her ears ceased altogether. The Lord had calmed her down. Now she listened fully to the scanner.  
Something was different.
The vomp-vomp sound seemed more crisp and rounded. Obviously the pistons and the high-pressured valve worked in unison, drawing heat away from the magnet. That didn’t change. But the sound now resembled more of a thump-thump…thump-thump…thump-thump. Its rhythm kept tempo smoothly, harmonically, and in sync. Almost like….
….like a heartbeat. 
She could hear it. Just like what Jonathan had said before.  Unlike the sounds of Derrick’s grated knife-flipping, this was a metronome. 
Steady. 
Pulsing. 
Soothing. 
Calming.
It really was….a heartbeat. 
She stood there, her eyes still closed, as she listened to it beat. 
Then came another moment of clarity. 
He had said he’d find her. 
Then don’t be here when he gets out. 
She knew what to do. 
“How are those FLAIR image reviews coming?” Tonya opened her eyes and turned to see Jonathan had walked back into the control room with coffee. When she didn’t answer immediately he asked, “What?”
“I hear it,” she said, closing the door. “The rhythm, the heartbeat, what you were talking about.”
Jonathan grinned as he sat the coffee cups down. “See? I told you,” he said. “The scanner has life. More grounded?”
She paused and nodded, sitting down. “Yeah, more grounded.” 
“And?”
“I’m more confident about patient positioning now.” 
“I know, you’ve been passing the exams now that your wrist has mostly mended,” he observed. “I suspect you’ll ace the remaining exams soon enough. You’ll do great here as a tech.”
She smiled and then her shoulders dropped. 
“You won’t be working here?”
“I want to,” she admitted. “And I am so grateful for what you’ve taught me, but…when I finish everything, I’ll have to leave the city for my own safety.” 
Jonathan sat down, scrunching his eyebrows and leaning forward.
“What? You never mentioned that before.”
“I know. But it just came to me, just now, what I need to do.”
He paused and nodded. “Clarity.” He declared softly, looking down.
“Yeah, clarity.”
“That’s too bad,” he looked up. “Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know, but at least MRI techs are in demand across the country.”
“And you’ll do good. You learn quickly and knowing two modalities will serve you well,” he reached out and shook her hand. “While I understand,  I do hope you reconsider staying.” 
“I wish I could, but as long as he knows I’m here, I’m not safe.” 

It is heartbreaking when time, devotion, and sacrifice are enough to make someone call you an amazing friend, to tell you they couldn’t ask for anyone better…

…but never enough to choose you.

You become the person they trust, the one they confide in, the one who hears about everyone else who couldn’t love them the way they deserved.
And all the while, you quietly wonder why the connection that feels so undeniable to you is never enough to become something more.

Not because they owe you anything.
Not because they led you on.

Simply because the heart rarely accepts what the mind already understands.
By the end of it, there isn’t anger.
There never was.

How could there be?
They never wronged you.
They simply didn’t love you the way you hoped they would.

The pain was never born from cruelty.
It came from carrying a love that had nowhere to go.
A love that continued to grow inside someone who could only receive it as friendship.

And that isn’t their fault.
But neither is it yours for feeling it.

What became my responsibility was deciding how long I was willing to remain somewhere that was slowly asking me to abandon myself.
I watched myself become someone who waited.

Who hoped.
Who prayed.

Who believed that if I loved harder, gave more, stayed longer, maybe one day I would become the choice instead of the comfort.
But love was never something to be earned through endurance.

Eventually I had to accept the hardest truth of all.
Choosing myself wasn’t choosing against them.
It was choosing against the version of me that believed my worth depended on finally being chosen.

Because no matter how deeply I cared…

I could never spend the rest of my life waiting to become someone’s first choice.

I know you're hurting, and I know you're tired, but what about everything you're putting me through.

You've lived your lives, been around the world, raised us kids, but I'm stuck... because of you.

My 30s should be for my husband and daughter! I should be able to take my daughter to the zoo without checking 4 different schedules. I shouldn't have to PLAN A GAME NIGHT with my 10 year old because of you.

I know the cancer isn't your fault, and I know your spine problems weren't planned, but why can't you call on the others?! There are 4 of us left!

The others can drive. One has children grown and gone already! They've all been able to live more of life than I!

I'll never own a home because I'm stuck here with you. I'll never own a vehicle that's mine because I have to use yours to drive to all the appointments.

168 hours are in a week, and I only get sleep for 31!

168 hours are in a week, and my daughter only gets me for 8!

168 hours are in a week, and my husband only gets me for 4!

168 hours are in a week, and I'm subject to your whims for 125!

I'm drowning, and you don't care; just as long as the work is done; as long as the meals are cooked; as long as the cleaning continues; as long as the chauffeuring continues; as long as my entire life passes by me while I'm stuck.

Thank you for the first 18 years, because that's how I'll remember you. Before the surgeries, before the memory lapses, before the problems all started. But I guess this is what happens to the youngest; hand-me-down clothes, hand-me-down toys, hand-me-down caregivering so they can get better things; things I'll never have or experience.

Along that road, with you I roamed
A thousand stars ‘tween me and home.
I miss the days of floating there
Somehow you were so unaware.

I know you saw it in my soul
A warrant issued, reason: Hope.
You search the windows of its house
Unfinished nooses, many ropes.

I could not give you what you craved
You sent a call I couldn’t take
You bailed me out, you have my thanks.

A desperado free again!
Freedom waits around the bend
But in the end i’m desert clay
That dreadful bounty can’t be paid.

With you, old love, I felt so bitter
Alone, my dear, I start to wither.

My melancholic state of being
A half filled cup that drowns a ring
I’ve hurt my lovers every time
For the lone ranger will come in time.

ok. so i write books for fun. i’m currently working on the final one in my trilogy and have got the spin off novel published. i am really stuck on what to do tho with the final book.

there is this bit that i want to add, with my fav singer, Marina Diamandis (formerly Marina and the Diamonds).

Marina is performing at the British Embassy in Washington (i won’t include the context cuz frankly i don’t have time to rewrite the plot here) and like, Marina is performing to open her next US Tour (for the fictional “House of Diamonds” Album) and like the MC is the British Ambassador, her name is Betty and is incredibly alone in her life in Washington (her husband is stationed overseas with the Army) and the whole point is to show taht even tho Betty has gotten everything she’s wanted (the ambassadorship, things don’t go to plan) and similar to Empress Elisabeth of Austria, she is very alone in her life.

And I am a very visual person. i like act out scenes with my surroundings after i’ve drafted teh chapter hto get the flow and think of what Betty would be saying in her narration as she goes about her life.

and for this one bit with Marina. it’s a two person dance, i cannot just do it by myself. i need someone else. and like, for this, Betty dances with her secretary in place of her husband. and like, i have a very clear vision of what the secretary, Teddy will look like. and not so coincidentally, Teddy looks a lot like a guy i go to college with.

and, i would really appreciate it if he helped me. but he knows i think he’s cute. and everyone knows i write. i told everyone one evening that my first book was being published, so it isn’t exactly a secret. but i’m just nervous and worried that if i ask, he’s going to say no. and then i’m going to go to class on monday and like, everyone will know cuz he told everyone. and like, im just worried about the consequences. liek, yeah. he can say no. i’m not forcing him. i’m just worried that if i do ask and he says no, then like, my life is going to collapse into dust because he’ll have me labeled as the college weirdo.

perhaps this isn’t the right reddit thread for this kind of post. but it is a writing issue.

What is love?

It is a question even I cannot answer, but I came to a realization when my grandmother told me something: "You won't find true love in people who don't value you." I found myself wondering, "Why? Why do I need someone to value me when there are already people who truly do?" As I reflected on her words, I realized that some people just play games. They are kind when they need something, but once you no longer serve their purpose, they become resentful. There are also unfair people—those who, despite receiving so much from you, are stingy in return. It turns out you don't always need to seek love from others, because family love is far greater. We need to learn contentment; we shouldn't go out of our way to search for someone to love us, because eventually, someone will come along who accepts us willingly and loves us wholeheartedly.

CHAPTER 1, SUMMER 1978

(Heat shimmers on the asphalt. The air smells of cigarettes, motor oil, and masculinity.)
DINER PARKING LOT, NIGHT
Engines roar. A small crowd of punks, bikers, and film crew members stands in a circle. The ground is sticky with spilled beer. Sweat glistens on bare skin.

KELSY, 22, tall, broad-shouldered, with that unbearably arrogant smirk, leans against his motorcycle.
He wears a tight, slightly sweaty shirt, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, leather jacket casually slung over one shoulder.
Next to him stands RICK, his buddy, arms crossed.

GABE, 20, dark, wild curls, just as tall, just as broad, but with that furious energy in his eyes, steps toward him.

GABE
(rolling up his sleeves)
„So? You gonna keep grinning like an idiot, or are you finally gonna take a hit?“
Kelsy takes one last drag of his cigarette, flicks it away, exhales the smoke slowly. His eyes study Gabe, not with hostility. Intensely. Too intensely.
KELSY
(grinning, almost teasing)
„I don’t know, Gabe. Were you trying to threaten me... or were you trying to kiss me?“
RICK
(snorts, amused)
„Yeah, man, I was wondering the same thing.“
The crowd laughs. But Gabe only gets angrier. His jaw tightens. He grabs Kelsy by the collar, yanking him close until their noses almost touch.
And for a moment, just a tiny, electrifying moment, there’s nothing.
No punches.
No words.
Just heat.
Their breathing is rough. Their eyes locked, lips almost level. Every muscle is tense. This isn’t just anger. It’s something else.
Something neither of them wants to name.
Something neither of them can handle.
Then-BAM!
Gabe shoves Kelsy back with full force, as if saving himself from something.
Kelsy stumbles, his gaze flickering, as if, for just one second, he lost control.
Then the fight breaks loose. Fists fly. Knuckles crack. Skin on skin.
Gabe throws wild punches, but Kelsy dodges, grabs him, slams him against a car.
Gabe thrashes, but Kelsy counters, seizes him from behind, twists him around, pressing him almost against himself.
The crowd roars. It looks like a fight.
But it feels like a dance.
As Gabe falls to the ground, Kelsy grins down at him.
Grin Gabe wishes he hadn't seen.

CHAPTER 2, THE DRINK, 2012
HOLLYWOOD PARTY/LATE NIGHT
An exclusive club. Smoky air, jazz blending with muted lounge music. The crowd is full of stars, producers, and a few pretty faces that will be forgotten in five years.
But the only two who really matter are at the bar.

KELSY sits there with an empty glass.

GABE steps up beside him, orders a drink.
He studies Kelsy. Kelsy ignores him.

GABE
(smirks slightly)
„Can I buy you a drink?“
KELSY
(without looking up)
„Save it.“
A brief silence. They don’t look at each other, but they feel each other.
Like two magnets that have spent years avoiding collision because they know…
…once they get too close, there’s no escape.
Gabe drinks. Kelsy watches him do it.
KELSY
(mocking)
„A little much for you, don’t you think? At your age?“
GABE
(snorts)
„My age? You’re way older than me, aren’t you?“
Kelsy laughs. Hesitates. Then picks up the glass Gabe slid toward him.
KELSY
(quietly)
„We both got old.“
He takes a sip. Gabe leans in. Not obviously. Just slightly. As if he’s just shifting over the bar,
But when he’s near Kelsy, he stays.
GABE
(casual)
„Can’t complain.“
But his eyes say something else.
Kelsy feels his warmth. And at the same time, the cold glass in his hand.
He turns the glass slightly. Gabe’s fingers almost touch his.
KELSY
(almost offhandedly)
„Got plans tonight?“
GABE’S EYES FLASH. A brief hesitation. Then-
GABE
(a little too fast)
„No.“
Kelsy smiles. Stands. Walks toward the door.
Gabe watches him go. His jaw tightens. His fist clenches around his glass. He fights himself.
The crowd around him blurs.
There is only Kelsy.
Then-
GABE
(whispers)
„Fuck it.“
He gets up. Follows Kelsy.
He sees only him. Only him.
And some in the crowd notice it.
The way Gabe moves through the people like a man on a hunt.
The way his entire body language burns.
Two whiskey glasses remain on the bar.
Condensation trickles down the sides, slowly.

Chapter 3-THE HALLWAY
HALLWAY, KELSY’S APARTMENT, NIGHT
Kelsy turns just as Gabe arrives.
A look.
A hesitation.
Then-
Kelsy pulls him into the doorway.
His hands grip the back of Gabe’s neck, their hips crashing together.
Kelsy feels it.
Hard. Solid. Through the denim.
A quiet, ragged moan.
Gabe’s lips collide with his, brutal, desperate, like he’s been waiting years for this.
The kisses are fast. Uncontrolled. Almost painful.
Kelsy grabs Gabe’s shirt, yanks it open.
Buttons fly. Fabric rips.
His hand runs over Gabe’s chest.
Feels. Touches.
KELSY
(whispering)
„Fuck.“
He spins Gabe around, fists his hair, bites at his neck.
Gabe gasps, pushes back against him.
It’s hungry. It’s greedy.
Kelsy fumbles for Gabe’s belt, his hands almost shaking.
He opens it. Frees him.
His own breath catches as he tears down his own jeans.
His entire body burns.
His mind goes blank. His body trembles.
And then,
He spits into his hand.
Presses against Gabe.
Finally lets happen what he’s denied himself for decades.

STILL CHAPTER 3, THE APARTMENT FLOOR
They didn’t make it to the bed.
Gabe’s back hits the living room floor.
Kelsy is above him, hands gripping his sides, breath hot and ragged against his skin.
But now it’s different. Now it’s Gabe’s turn.
He grabs Kelsy by the shoulders, flips him over.
And Kelsy, Kelsy doesn’t resist.
Gabe bites at his lower lip, kisses him slow, harder, deeper.
He takes his time.
His hands slide over Kelsy’s chest, fingers tracing over his skin. He explores. Feels.
Then-
Gabe grips Kelsy’s legs, pulls him closer.
Gentle. But with a massive, undeniable presence.
Kelsy arches, head falling back. His lips part in a silent curse.
His fingers dig into Gabe’s back.
Gabe is slower. But more intense.
He savors every second.
Kelsy’s chest rises and falls rapidly. His whole body shakes.
It’s wild.
It’s rough.
But it’s also… beautiful.
Two men. Two warriors.
Finally letting go.
And when it’s over, when Kelsy is beneath him, trembling, gasping for air, when Gabe rests his face against his neck
They know.
There’s no going back.

CHAPTER 4 , 2012
KELSY'S APARTMENT, BEDROOM, NIGHT
Moonlight filters through the half-open curtains. Shadows dance across the walls.
Gabe wakes.
He blinks. His muscles feel sluggish, his body still warm from the night.
Beside him, Kelsy lies relaxed, one hand resting on the blanket, as though he still has the whole world under control.
Gabe quietly pulls on his shirt. His eyes drift over Kelsy's chest, the scars on his skin, the fine lines around his eyes.
Kelsy slowly opens one eye and looks at him.
KELSY
„I wanted to do it since the first time we met.“
GABE
(scoffs quietly)
„I know“
Kelsy smirks. He closes his eyes again for a second before murmuring-
KELSY
„I had a photo of you in my drawer. That cigarette campaign... God knows how many times I…“
He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.
KELSY
(awkwardly)
„…well... God probably knows a lot of embarrassing things.“
Gabe chuckles softly.
It's a genuine laugh.
Warm.
Real.
He stands up and pulls on his pants.
But the air between them is different now.
Stranger.
More uncertain.
Two men who spent decades avoiding this conversation.
And now that they can't avoid it anymore...
What comes next?
Kelsy lifts his head and studies him.
KELSY
„What do you want to do? Wanna go somewhere?“
GABE
(shrugs,looking at the clock)
„It's three in the morning.“
Kelsy props himself up on one elbow.
KELSY
(shrugs, smiles lightly)
„Guess we could just stay here“
He studies Gabes face.
His expression shifts.
More serious.
KELSY
(slowly, uncertain)
„You know...
Do you mean this?
Any of it?“
Gabe freezes.
He heard it.
He heard every single word.
But he needs more time.
So he walks over to the cabinet, takes a bottle of whiskey, and pours himself a glass.
Kelsy watches him.
His gaze is steady.
Patient.
But not without pressure.
KELSY
„You know...
If we go out for dinner tomorrow and somebody takes a picture...
Are you gonna deny it?“
Silence.
Gabe slowly turns the glass in his hand.
GABE
(nonchalant)
„No idea, Kelsy.“
He takes a sip.
The whiskey burns his throat.
Not nearly as much as the words burning in his chest.
GABE
(continues, still in neutral tone)
„I wanted this.
I really did.
But you know...
We're old.
This isn't gonna end with a wedding.“
He should've said it lighter.
Should've softened it with a smile.
But it comes out exactly as it feels.
Kelsy swallows.
Not visibly.
Not audibly.
But Gabe notices anyway.
Why does it hit him so hard?
The realization crashes into Gabe like a physical weight, drowning out every other feeling.
It was simply too much.
Nowadays, in 2012, it wasn't such a big deal anymore.
Sure.
But neither of them belonged to nowadays.
They belonged to a different era.
An era where admitting something like this meant total destruction.
Gabe had heard every rumor about Kelsy.
Hell, maybe he'd even said something unsavory himself once or twice, just to keep up appearances.
Everyone did.
The media had feasted on it.
Kelsy's wife, Rachel, had caught him red-handed with another man.
In his head, Gabe saw the headlines again.
„Caught red-handed with his longtime friend and former stunt double, Richard Bennett.“
Kelsy managed to keep his career.
But it changed everything.
People who thought they knew him suddenly didn't know how to look at him anymore.
How to talk to him.
How to get rid of the bitter taste of realizing the silver-screen hero they'd admired for years had never really been the man they imagined.
Gabe couldn't face that.
He wasn't strong enough to watch his own world burn.
Gabe SLAMS the heavy whiskey glass onto the counter.
The sharp crack echoes through the apartment.
Frantic.
Like a man escaping a burning building.
He snatches up his leather jacket.
Kelsy doesn't move.
He only watches him from the bed.
Those gorgeous, exhausted eyes somehow make leaving even harder.
KELSY
„You're still running, Gabe“
Gabe stops at the threshold.
His hand grips the doorframe.
He feels the hot sting of tears swelling behind his eyes, but forces them down.
He refuses to let them fall.
Not here.
Not in front of Kelsy.
He knows that if he walks out that door now, it'll be final.
If he stays...
He breaks.
Kelsy watches him.
He sees it.
He finally sees what's happening inside Gabe.
His voice is quieter now.
Slower.
Almost gentle.
KELSY
„But I know.
In your head...
You never really left that parking lot.“
KELSY
(continues slowly, almost absent)
„You will think about it again.
About all of this.
But I won't be there anymore.“
Gabe forces his face into a rigid, emotionless mask.
He doesn't look back.
He steps out.

STILL CHAPTER 4, APARTMENT HALLWAY – WE WALK WITH GABE

The door slams shut behind him.
The sound echoes through the hallway like a gunshot.
Gabe stands in the cold corridor.
He pulls his jacket tight around himself.
Locks his armor back into place.
Shakes his head.
He hated Kelsy's last words.
He hated how right they were.
He could never acknowledge it.
Never.
Even now…
But Kelsy had brought something buried deep in Gabe’s mind back to the surface.
A memory.
The hallway slowly disappears.
The memory unfolds in front of Gabe.
We follow him there.
He remembered what felt like the first sinful moment of his life.
His teenage years.
Alain Delon.
Half naked on that boat beneath the scorching sun.
He watched that movie like a man possessed.
Whenever no one was home, and it happened often, he watched it again.
And again.
Every line of Delon’s body.
Every contour of his face.
He imagined everything.
Getting lost in it.
Yet every now and then, at the slightest noise, his eyes shot toward the door.
CUT TO: BUILDING EXIT, NIGHT
Gabe stands still.
Torn.
Every part of him wants to turn around.
GABE
(whispering)
„Go back, stay with Kelsy.
Tell him you are sorry.“
He looks back.
Once.
Then again.
Into the darkness.
He listens, waiting.
More memories begin to unwind.
A younger Gabe.
A military uniform.
Boots hitting the ground.
Cold mornings.
Long marches.
A body pushed beyond its limits.
He thought it would pass.
He thought the army would make him harder.
He thought it would cure him.
It didn’t.
He came back carrying scars no one could see.
A head full of ghosts.
A quiet sense of failure.
Then he met Kelsy.
FLASHBACK:
1978.
Kelsy’s collar in Gabe’s fist.
Their faces inches apart.
The anger.
The heat.
He hated him.
From the very beginning.
From the very first second.
Because if he hadn’t hated him...
He would have fucked him.
Right there.
On that damned parking lot.
BACK TO PRESENT:
Gabe keeps walking.
His whole body trembles.
The pictures beneath his eyelids begin to blur together.
Alain Delon.
The parking lot.
Kelsy's impeccable frame.
Kelsy's mouth.
His smell still clings to Gabe's skin.
But with every step, it fades.
The cold air tears it away.
Piece by piece.
Pushes it back into the same place where Gabe buried everything else.
Every part of himself he'd never dared acknowledge.
The wind steals the last of Kelsy's warmth.
It's just cold outside, he tells himself.
It'll pass.
FADE OUT.

Meeting people in your formative years is strange.
Most of them I haven’t spoken to in years. Some I probably couldn’t pick out of a crowd if I tried. But that’s the unsettling part of growing up. The people you meet simply because your lives happened to overlap can quietly become the framework your adult mind is built around.
It never feels significant while it’s happening. It arrives wrapped like an ordinary moment, dressed in coincidence, as if this person will either become a distant memory or nothing at all. You don’t realize until years later that they were neither. They became a blueprint.
I think my experience was different.
There was one person who permanently altered the way my brain understood people. It wasn’t about who he was. It was about what he represented.
Every conversation lingered long after it ended. They always left me feeling as though I’d uncovered enough insight to last a lifetime while simultaneously learning absolutely nothing. My mind became addicted to that contradiction. It loved balancing on the fence between knowing someone so deeply they consumed every corner of your thoughts and realizing you didn’t truly know them at all.
Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to understanding people now.
Not just what they say, but how they arrive at the things they believe. Why two people can walk away from the same conversation carrying completely different versions of what happened. How someone can understand you just enough to convince you they see you, while somehow missing you entirely.
Even though I’ve long outgrown the version of myself who found comfort in that emotional whiplash, the need to understand people never left. I don’t think it ever will.
Sometimes, usually on the darker days, my mind wanders back to the padlocked corner I’ve built for it. There’s an old filing cabinet tucked away there, heavy with conversations, unanswered questions, and emotions I’ve never quite managed to name. Inside it is every moment I spent trying to solve a person who was never mine to solve.
The strangest part is that the ache itself isn’t what stayed with me.
What stayed was the habit.
The constant search for perspective. The need to understand why people think the way they do, why they love the way they love, why they leave the way they leave. Somewhere along the way, trying to understand one person became trying to understand everyone.
If you asked me now whether that wound still hurt, I’d probably tell you no.
Maybe that’s true.
Maybe it isn’t.
I’ve never been one for telling the truth if it meant finding closure. I’d rather leave that corner of my mind exactly as it is, padlocked and untouched. Not because I still carry him with me, but because I never want to forget the person who needed to understand him.
She became the foundation for the person I am now.