The Bonds That Last

Carrying a strong bond with the people I grew up with is one of the great things in my life—but sometimes it feels like a double-edged blade. They knew me before the chaos, before the bottles, before the nights I couldn’t crawl out of. They remember a version of me I can barely picture anymore. And standing beside them, I feel the weight of who I’ve lost.

There’s something both comforting and painful about people who’ve seen you from the beginning. They carry memories of me laughing without effort, dreaming without limits. When they look at me now, I wonder if they notice the cracks, or if they pretend not to. I can’t hide from them completely—they know too much. But I also can’t always let them all the way in, because the shame clings too tightly.

Being with them is like touching the surface of another life, one I can’t fully step back into. The laughter still comes, but it feels borrowed. The warmth is there, but it flickers. These bonds keep me tethered, yet sometimes they also remind me how far I’ve drifted from the shore we all started on together.

And maybe that’s why I cling to them so hard—because even when I feel like a ghost of myself, they’re proof that I was once alive. They are the mirror that shows me not just who I am, but who I used to be. And some days, that’s harder to face than the loneliness itself.