Eye of a Hurricane

I grew up believing that love was a gentle, predictable thing.

My parents loved each other wholly and unconditionally. I never saw their affection waver, but I never saw it ignite, either. It was constant and steady, not prone to ebbing and flowing.

Their love was like a picture-perfect rainy day--the kind where you know exactly when it will start and when it will end. The kind where the raindrops fall slowly and consistently enough to know that you won’t go outside today, but not so intense that it affects you otherwise.

It was everything I dreamed of having someday. I wanted my own rainy day, a love that comforted me the same way I felt on a day spent with a hot cup of tea, a book, and a blanket, backdropped by the faintest sound of raindrops hitting the windowpane.

I yearned for a slow burn, for a childhood friendship turned into lifetime love.

I never wanted the unpredictable, roller-coaster love portrayed in dramas and romance novels. I wanted to be the best friend, the supporting character that gives relationship advice because they have never once questioned their love or loyalty.

I wanted a partner that would commit to me, one that would weather every storm by my side and dry me off once it passed.

Unfortunately, you can't always choose what comes your way.

Have you ever been caught in a torrential downpour that seemingly came out of nowhere? Blue skies suddenly turn cloudy, and before you have time to notice the shift, you’re drenched from head to toe. The kind of rain that makes some people want to run and seek cover, while others want to jump in the puddles. The kind of rain in movies when a character finally confesses their love for their best friend.

Before him, my sky was clear, no clouds in sight. Then he came barreling through, and I was directly in his path. By the time I knew what was happening, I was already drenched.

There was no way to escape him; my only choice was to hunker down and bear the storm.

Rixen was everything. He wasn’t the apple of my eye. Instead, I was the eye—at the very center of him, an inescapable hurricane.

For too long, I believed that I could be untouched by the storm, that I would remain unaffected by his ferocity.

I thought I could predict him.

But I am not a meteorologist, and I was wrong.

Instead of that fairytale of eternal peace and love, I found myself inside of a storm.

No, that's not true. I didn't find myself inside of a storm. I didn't find myself at all.

No, I was lost.

I was caught up in the overwhelming intensity—a relentless whirlwind of emotions that threatened to drown me at any second. Like an endless cyclone, the winds carried me, swirling me around until there was no up or down, no left or right. There was only the blinding, prickling rain that left goosebumps on my skin. It was a confusion that I didn't want to end, because every sensation I felt told me that I was alive. Not just alive, but that I was living.

I was never ready to tumble back to earth—didn't want to experience another, different storm. How could anything ever compare to this—to him?

I went from being the calm before a storm to being completely overtaken by it, not just trapped inside it but carried by it until I felt like I was part of the storm itself. I became so saturated by the storm that I no longer knew where I ended and where the storm started.

I found myself at his mercy. And at the feet of my desires, I professed my love for him.

But that kind of intensity cannot last. How often is such intensity sustainable? Aside from movies and books—never.

Like every storm system, he moved on. As quickly as he swept me off my feet, he dropped me back to the ground. Once again, too sudden to prepare for.

It was a pain like no other to come crashing down after feeling weightless and alive; how can you go back to before?

Once you've learned to live—no, thrive—amidst the storm, how are you meant to tolerate the stillness?

I preferred it when I thought I was going to drown. Now, I feel like the earth is suffocating me, like a fish out of water. As with every devastating storm, Rixen changed me; now, I need the storm to survive. Without it—without him, life feels stagnant.

I can never return to the version of me before the storm; all I can do now is hold onto the memories as a warning—as a lesson. Like every forgotten survivor, I must take my shattered life and rebuild. I must strengthen my walls and my resolve.

Despite my best efforts to recover, the mere thought of him was enough to rattle me. Like a crack in the foundation that lets water seep through with the slightest of rain.

It was a cruel, unbearable heartbreak, worsened by lingering effects. Every time the winds picked up, or it started to rain, I thought he had come back for me. That maybe he couldn't live without me the way I couldn't and didn't want to live without him.

What scared me most was that I didn't just hope that he had come back for me; I hoped that he would break down my new walls. That my efforts to heal and move on from him were all in vain because he truly loved me the same way that I loved him.

But no matter how much water seeped through the cracks, he never came back for me. My walls stood strong as my memories of him turned into remnant lows, smaller storms of crushing emotions that followed in his wake.

Just like that, I was alone—drenched and cold, standing in a steady rainfall of heartache and tears amidst the wreckage and ruin of Hurricane Rixen.

My hope of his return slowly washed away with every gust of wind, every raindrop, like d

ebris being carried downstream.