A.V

 You know… Mother’s holed up in her room, surrounded by your pictures. She weeps— disconsolately. Endlessly. And me? All I want to know is why . Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you ask for help? Why didn’t you just… reach out a finger? Just one. I would’ve come. God damn it, I would’ve come . Even if you were in hell, I would’ve dragged you out. You were my umbrella— the only place I found solace, a place Father never could give. You were that for me. You were everything . But now… what do I do? I’m eighteen. But I’m no adult . Not enough to carry this. Not enough to walk this world alone. This society—this life— How am I supposed to tread it without a light to guide me? What were you trying to teach me, huh? To jump from buildings the moment life hurts too much? Because I swear to you— I feel it . I feel it too . How could you, my dear brother— my shade, my sun and moon— how could you leave me behind with nothing more then a laconic little let...

(I’m writing this so I can breathe) This is A.V. An INFJ and a Virgo. A person not built for the noise of society—because the presence of people, their gazes, their questions, their expectations, all seem to press in too close. Human closeness doesn’t comfort him—it freezes him. He shies away from small talk, the way one avoids the cold touch of metal on a winter morning. Words spoken without depth feel like static in his ears. He rarely meets eyes, not out of disrespect, but because looking too closely feels like peeling away skin—too raw, too much. He needs meaning—always. He can’t move without reason, without purpose. Every action must have a soul behind it. His heart doesn’t race at gold or applause—it flutters quietly at the sight of wild blue skies, of dew settling into green leaves, of rain on windows. He recharges in silence, in stillness, alone. He can go deep—so deep it might surprise you—but only in the soft privacy of one-on-one conversations. Put him in a group, and he fad...