40 - The Second Fall

After my father passed, 

we lost the family farm. 

Medical bills swallowed everything. 

And the families we thought were friends

they vanished. 

Turns out they were only close because of money.

We moved to a small house. 

Humble. 

Quiet. 

A new beginning, 

or so we hoped.

The first six years were hard. 

I couldn’t adapt. 

Poor. 

Emotionally scarred. 

Betrayed. 

Not just by circumstance, 

but by people we trusted.

When I reached adulthood, 

I thought I’d moved on. 

But it showed,

in how I lived. 

The way I worked. 

Chasing money like it owed me something.

As if to prove something. 

To show those who turned away how much I’d grown. 

How I don't need them anymore

That it was their loss

That I didn’t need their pity anymore.

I became what I shouldn’t

a workaholic. 

The very thing that killed my father. 

I guess it runs in the blood.

I couldn't break the cycle. 

Even now 

More than 70 hours a week. 

Self-absorbed. 

Neglecting friends and family

All the things that really mattered 

Only chasing money

I made friends along the way,

Some just on the surface, 

But some that stuck around even when they saw my true self

Those are rare ones. 

I didn't realise back then

The kind who stayed, 

even when I didn’t deserve it. 

I should have cared for them more. 

But I didn’t.

I lived like that for years. 

Facebook became my substitute for connection. 

Hundreds of “friends.” 

Likes. 

Comments. 

Pretending I was part of something.

But I wasn’t. 

I stopped going out. 

Even with my best friend

the one I used to drink with, 

laugh with, 

share meaningless chats that somehow meant everything. 

I was always working. 

Always busy. 

Always chasing something I couldn’t name.

He started liking our old posts. 

Not just recent ones, 

but the ones buried deep in the past.

Photos from wild nights, 

grainy snapshots of joy, 

memories I had long scrolled past. 

He was digging through them, 

one by one, 

as if trying to remind me of who we used to be.

I should have known. 

Should have seen the signs

A cry for help

reaching out, 

a quiet knock on the door.

But I didn’t. 

I thought he was just bored. 

Scrolling. 

Nostalgic. 

I was annoyed by the notifications. 

Ping. Ping. Ping. 

Another like. 

Another comment. 

Then came the private messages. 

One after another. 

Too many. 

Too often. 

I was at work. 

He knew I was busy. 

I told myself he was being inconsiderate. 

I silenced the alerts. 

I didn’t open them. 

I thought he’d get the hint.

Eventually, 

the messages stopped. 

And I felt relief. 

I thought he’d finally stopped bothering me.

A few days later, 

I found out he had taken his life.

I froze. 

I couldn’t breathe. 

I still can’t open those messages. 

They sit there, 

unread, 

like a grave I can’t bring myself to visit.

He was calling out. 

And I treated it like noise. 

Like a distraction. 

Like something that could wait.

That was my second fall. 

The moment life struck me across the face and whispered, 

“You weren’t there. Not when it mattered.”

More than ten years have passed. 

And I’m still trying to forgive myself. 

Still trying to learn how to be emotionally present. 

Still tending the lighthouse I now keep for others

because I know what it means to be left in the dark with no one answering your light.

Even after that day, 

I tried to live differently. 

Tried to be more present, 

more careful, 

more attuned to the quiet signals others might send.

But even with all the cautious steps I took, 

I still fell again. 

For similar reasons. 

My third and deepest fall to date.

That was the moment I truly locked myself in the lighthouse

not just to tend the light for others, 

but to keep my own storm from spilling out.