I grew up in a house that never really felt like home. People always say home is where love is, but if that's true, then I never had one. My parents were married, yes, but love was never in the picture. From as far back as I can remember, my dad was more like a stranger who lived with us than a father. He never cared to ask how I was doing, never once sat down to really talk to me. And then, just like that, one day he packed his bags and left for abroad. I was still young, and I didn't even understand why. All I knew was that my father was gone, and he wasn't coming back anytime soon.
That was the first time I realized something: people leave. No matter how much you want them to stay, they'll walk away if they choose to. I carried that in my chest like a wound that never healed.
After he left, I thought maybe my mom would step up, maybe she would pour the love I had lost into me. But instead, she became someone I could never recognize as a mother. She was always out, never around. When she was home, she brought men in and out like it was nothing, like I wasn't even there to see. I would hear her laughing, sometimes crying, sometimes fighting with those men. And me? I was just a shadow in the corner, unwanted, unseen.
I learned very quickly that in my house, love was something that didn't exist. My mother never hugged me, never kissed me goodnight, never even told me she loved me. Sometimes I wondered if she even remembered she had a son. I can't tell you how many nights I laid awake, staring at the ceiling, asking myself: Why wasn't I enough? Why didn't they love me?
By the time I became a teenager, that part of me that longed for love it died. I shut it off completely. I stopped expecting affection, stopped hoping that maybe one day my dad would return or that my mom would change. I became cold, numb. And when you stop believing in love, it changes you. You start living only for yourself. You stop caring about anyone else's feelings because deep down, you think no one cares about yours.
That's the version of me the world knew hard, selfish, untouchable. I built walls so high that no one could get through. People tried to be my friends, some girls even liked me, but I never let anyone close enough. I wasn't about to open my heart just for it to be broken again. I told myself love was a lie, a trap for the weak. And I believed that with every bone in my body.
But life… life has a way of testing what you think you know.
By the time I got into my final year at the university, I had gotten used to being alone. I kept to myself, minded my business, and acted like nothing in the world could touch me. But the truth? Deep inside, I was still that little boy lying awake at night, wanting someone anyone to stay. I just never admitted it.
And then, when I least expected it, when I thought my life was already written out in pain and loneliness, that was when my story really began. That was when Annie walked in.