Love is cruel

YIREN (PART 1)

The gate squeaks in its familiar, miserable way as I push it open. The yard, once full of life and laughter—Mom's garden, our sanctuary—now stands as a decaying monument to her absence. This place was once a warm, lived-in home, where my mother and stepfather built a life after my dad died. Now, it's a shadow of its former self.

I clutch the grocery bags tighter as I climb the worn steps. Every other Sunday, like clockwork, I come here. Every time, a small part of me hopes for something different. But seven years have taught me better. You don't expect miracles. Not here.

I knock, even though I don't have to. He never leaves the house.

"Papa? It's me, Yiren," I call out, pushing the door open and stepping into the stale air. The smell of cigarettes and neglect hits me like a wave, making my eyes water. I suppress a cough, my throat closing at the familiar scent of decay and resignation. The house hasn't changed. Everything is exactly where it was—the same worn recliner by the window, the same framed photograph of my mother in his hands. The same silence. He doesn't move. He doesn't acknowledge me.

I set the groceries down on the kitchen counter and glance at the fridge. Almost empty. A couple of soup cans, some whiskey, a half-eaten sandwich, and an untouched carton of milk—sour, judging by the smell. I sigh, unpacking the fresh food I brought and replacing the expired items, knowing full well most of it will go untouched.

"I was thinking of making paella today. It's your favorite, isn't it? Not as good as Mom's, but maybe close enough," I say louder than necessary, hoping for a reaction, knowing I won't get one. "I also picked up some new comic books. Thought you'd like them." I place the books beside him, adding them to the growing stack of untouched reading material.

The house is drowning in dust. It feels like it's swallowing everything whole. I start cleaning, wiping down counters, sweeping floors, trying to clear the layers of grime that seem determined to stay. As I move around, I steal glances at him. He's still staring at the photograph—Mom, smiling, young, vibrant, and full of life. Before the Alzheimer's took her. Before everything fell apart.

He had been her high school sweetheart, the man she'd loved before life tore them apart. After my real dad died, they reconnected, and for a while, they were happy. He was good to us, to me. I rode on his back through this very house, laughing, especially after losing my father. But now? Now it feels like I'm losing him too.

"Dinner's almost ready," I say, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. It's a one-sided conversation, just like always.

We sit down to eat, and as usual, I watch him push the food around his plate. He barely eats anymore, his body reduced to skin and bones. He just exists. And I don't know how to reach him, how to pull him back from this silent void he's chosen to live in. For the first few years, he tried. Then, one day, he stopped. As if life had become too much for him.

"You really should talk to someone," I say gently, placing my hand on his arm. His skin feels cold. I don't want to set him off, but I can't stay silent. "A therapist could help, Papa. You don't have to do this alone."

He slams his fork down, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch. His eyes, dull and lifeless just seconds ago, are now burning with anger. "Not this again," he mutters, his voice low but menacing.

I take a deep breath, the frustration building in my chest. "You don't have to stay stuck like this. Mom wouldn't have wanted—"

"Don't," he snaps, his voice louder now, cutting through the air like a knife. His eyes meet mine for the first time all evening, and I see the fury in them. "Don't you dare tell me what she would've wanted. You think you know?"

I recoil but refuse to back down. "I think she'd want you to live, not just... exist like this. She wouldn't want you to spend every day in this house, staring at a picture like it's going to bring her back."

"Enough, Yiren!" His voice is ice-cold now, a final warning. "I don't need your help, your therapy talk, or your damn grocery runs. You think you're doing something by showing up every couple of weeks, but you're not fixing anything. You can't fix this."

I stand there, the weight of his grief pressing down on me like a suffocating fog. I want to scream, to tell him how much he's hurting me by shutting me out, but I know it won't matter. He's too far gone, lost in his misery.

My hands tremble slightly as I rinse the dishes in the sink. "I'm just trying to help, Papa," I whisper, but he's already back in his chair, staring at that damn photo. It's as if I was never even here.

"I'll be back in two weeks," I say quietly, knowing full well he won't respond. As I leave the house, the same old despair settles over me like a heavy blanket. He's still in there, somewhere, but I don't know how to reach him anymore.

That's why I hate love. Love is cruel. It does wicked things to a person and sucks the life out of them. I'll never fall for whatever this thing called love is. Never.

As I close the door behind me, the quiet of my stepfather's house is instantly replaced by the distant hum of music and laughter. Across the street, the house opposite is alive with bright lights and decorations, the sound of celebration spilling into the evening air. People scatter in the front yard, raising glasses, dancing, and enjoying the night.

My eyes land on her—the girl I used to call a friend. She stands out among the crowd, wearing a flowing white dress with a sash that reads "Bride to Be." Her laughter is easy, her smile radiant. For a moment, I consider slipping away unnoticed. But just as I move toward my old pickup truck, our eyes meet.

Her smile shifts into a knowing smirk. Before I can climb in, she calls out, "Yiren!" Her voice has that familiar, falsely sweet tone. She totters over in high heels, two best friends and three men following behind her, all with amused expressions.

*to be continued in next chapter*