ISN’T IT IRONIC?

Isn’t it ironic? That the person who hurt us the most is also the one who knows exactly where our wounds are— because they were the one who made them. And yet, somehow, their presence is still the comfort we search for in the silence. How strange it is that the same voice that once broke us can still steady our heartbeat with a single word. How unfair that the hands that let us fall are the same hands our heart still believes can catch us. Maybe it’s because love doesn’t leave as quickly as people do. Maybe it’s because memories hold on tighter than we expect. Or maybe it’s just the cruel beauty of being human— to crave healing from the very source of the hurt. Isn’t it ironic, that the heart remembers softness even from the fire that burned it— and still calls it home?