They said love built homes—but mine crumbled with it.
I was seven when I stopped believing in happy endings. That morning, my father walked out with silence in his steps and anger in his eyes. My mother, broken and trembling, didn't try to stop him. She just stood there, power flickering faintly in her palms, as if love had drained the strength right out of her.
He didn't slam the door. That would've meant he still cared. He didn't look back either. That would've meant he still hoped. He just... left.
From the staircase, I watched it all. My knees pressed to my chest, arms wrapped tight. I wasn't crying. I didn't even feel anything. Just... numb.
They both had powers. He could bend fire. She could bend minds. But they couldn't bend toward each other—not anymore. And somehow, I got both their gifts... but none of their peace.
I started noticing things after the divorce. The way my hands lit up when I got angry. The way I could feel someone's fear before they even spoke. I knew it wasn't normal. I knew I was different. But I also knew this: I didn't want any of it.
I didn't want the power.
I didn't want the memories.
I didn't want love.
Because if love truly existed, why did it leave us behind? Why did it turn my mother into a shadow and my father into a ghost?
People say love is beautiful. I say it's a trick. A fairy tale they tell kids so we don't give up too soon. But I knew better. I saw the truth early—and once you see it, there's no going back.
Now I'm seventeen. And every time someone says "I love you," I flinch. Every time someone reaches out, I pull away. Because I learned that even the people who are supposed to stay... don't.
My name is Alex.
And this is not a love story.
This is the story of how I stopped believing—
Until something (or someone) made me question everything.