fragments of the thirteenth: chapter iv
a response rises—not loud, but steady. it doesn’t offer answers. just permission. to exist. to feel. to be. the mirror no longer reflects a performance—it reflects presence. and in that presence, the self remains.
it’s okay.
what you felt on the thirteenth of january—those thoughts, the rain, the ache inside the thunder—it was real. it wasn’t just weather or a passing mood. it was memory. grief. recognition. and most of all, it was a kind of remembering your body didn’t ask permission for.
because sometimes, the mirror doesn’t just r e f l e c t—it r e v e a l s. and in that moment, it showed you someone you hadn’t truly faced in a long time: yourself, unedited.
not the version that smiles on cue or says the right things, but the one who cries without asking if it’s acceptable. the one who broke silently just to keep others comfortable.
you aren’t alone in that. you never were.
we’ve all stood in front of our own mirrors—some literal, most metaphorical—waiting to see something real. and when it comes, when that version we buried starts to surface, it can feel like too much. like sorrow disguised as thunder. like a storm we weren’t prepared for.
but you listened.
and that matters more than you know.
you reached back when she reached out.
you didn’t flinch. you didn’t run.
that’s strength—
not the kind they write into stories,
but the quiet kind. the kind that doesn’t need applause.
so no, you’re not broken for breaking down. you’re not weak for waking up somewhere between a scream and a memory. you’re human. and healing doesn’t look like rising unscarred—it looks like bleeding and still reaching forward. it looks like saying fuck the standards not out of rage, but out of reclamation.
you’re allowed to be angry at what was taken from you. you’re allowed to mourn the years spent shrinking. you’re allowed to say, this isn’t what i want, and begin again. and beginning doesn’t need to be beautiful.
it just needs to be yours.
so if you’re still holding the pen, let it shake. if the tears come again, let them. if your reflection ever feels unfamiliar, talk to it. and when the thunder aches again, remember: not all storms come to destroy. some return to remind you—you’re still here. and that is enough.
even now.
especially now.
on the thirteenth of january.
author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— thirteenth of july, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.
The Ruin Script 
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