i remember the day i begged the heavens to let me see you again. the air trembled with thunder, and the world felt hollow beneath my knees. i was drenched, bruised by my own pleading, whispering your name like prayer, like confession.
“please…” i said. “just once. let me see her again.”
the sky did not answer. only the echo of my own voice came back—shattered and strange. i called your name until my throat bled with silence. i begged until the rain drowned my voice. i thought it was cruelty, that the heavens had turned their back on me. “why won’t you listen?” i screamed. “why won’t you give her back? i’ll trade my life, my blood, anything. just return what i’ve lost.”
but the more i begged, the more the silence grew. it pressed against my chest until breathing felt like punishment. “do i have to bleed for you to hear me? must i suffer until i’m nothing?” i asked the clouds, though i knew they would never answer.
the truth was heavier than thunder—i have sinned against humanity—in arrogance. in cruelty. in blindness. i made a mistake that broke more than a promise—i was cruel. i pushed. i destroyed. i forgot what it meant to care. and when everything i built collapsed, it didn’t fall slowly; it shattered all at once, like glass meeting stone.
for a while, i thought i could endure the emptiness. i pretended to breathe through it. but loss is a living thing—it hunts. each day it chased me like wolves through a forest of regret, and i could no longer tell which wounds were old and which were still bleeding.
days bled into years. my prayers became ghosts. i called your name until i could no longer remember the sound of it. and still, the heavens would not move. then one night, somewhere between the echoes of my own cries, i heard it—trembling but familiar. your voice, not from above, but within. it wasn’t you who answered. it was me.
and for the first time,
the silence did not feel empty.
it felt watchful. waiting.
that was when i understood. the one i was mourning was not you—it was the person i used to be, the one i buried beneath all my mistakes. i wasn’t pleading for you to return; i was pleading for myself.
the heavens weren’t deaf. i was in denial.
i was asking for the wrong kind of salvation.
they weren’t punishing me—
they were waiting for me to listen,
to face the pain i had refused to name.
the ache i kept rejecting, the guilt i kept cursing.
that was what the heavens were waiting for:
for me to recognize, to accept,
to finally whisper, i am broken.
and when i did, the thunder softened.
the rain didn’t drown me—it cleansed me.
the heavens did not speak,
yet i heard them in the stillness.
they had been waiting all this time,
not to give me back what i lost,
but to remind me that what
i sought was never gone—
only forgotten.
and that night,
under the weeping sky,
i found her again—
myself.
author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 9th of november, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.
The Ruin Script 
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