Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 33

His voice trembled, barely steady enough to break through the silence. “Betty… he needs you… please… help my son.”

I felt a sudden stillness inside me as the moment stretched, and my mind began to wander into the deeper currents beneath his words. Shame and desperation, two sides of the same fragile coin. Shame is a quiet, heavy cloak, wrapping itself around the soul, whispering that we are less than worthy, unworthy of forgiveness or understanding. It roots itself in our darkest places, making us small, hiding us from the light. It makes us retreat, build walls, and sometimes, it silences the parts of us that need help the most.

But desperation… desperation is different. It is a wild, urgent flame that breaks through those walls. It forces us to stand exposed, stripped of pride or dignity, and reach out with trembling hands. Desperation does not care about shame’s rules. It disregards the neat stories we tell ourselves about what is “proper” or “acceptable.” It demands action and connection - even if that means baring the rawest, most vulnerable parts of ourselves.

Here, in this man’s eyes, I saw that desperate flame burning brighter than his shame. It reminded me that love isn’t neat or clean. It’s messy and complicated. It’s often wrapped in fear, trembling hands, and broken promises. But love is also the courage to say, “I need you,” even when the whole world tells us to stay silent.

I swallowed hard, the weight of choice pressing down on me like the sky before a storm. And then I whispered back, “I’ll try.”

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When we reached the front door, I could already hear it, a soft, urgent knocking echoing through the quiet house. It wasn’t frantic, but it held a rhythm of pleading. Like someone trying to wake up a part of the world that had fallen asleep too long.

“James?” his mother’s voice cracked through the air. She stood by his closed door, palm pressed gently to the wood like she could feel his heartbeat through it. “Please, anak… it’s been a week. You haven’t come out of your room. We’re so worried…”

I felt something cold wrap itself around my spine - fear, guilt, maybe both. My feet felt like they were moving underwater. Each step toward that door was a confrontation with everything I had tried to bury under reason and silence.

When his mother saw me, her eyes widened, but not in anger. Only pain. A flicker of hope. “He won’t listen to us,” she whispered. “Maybe… maybe he’ll listen to you.”

I swallowed. My hand trembled as I reached for the door.

“Baby,” I called softly. “James… I’m here. Please open up.”

Silence.

My voice cracked. “I.... I know it feels like I left you. Maybe I did. But I swear, if you just let me explain… Please. We’re all worried about you.”

Then, a sound. A thud. Footsteps. A slow creak.

The door cracked open just enough for me to see him - eyes red, hair messy, face hollowed out by something heavier than time. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside before shutting the door behind us.

It was dark. The curtains were drawn, air thick with the scent of old tears and days left unshowered. Bottles of beer on the floor along with bags of chips and some clothes. I heard the muffled voices of his parents outside - a fading concern behind closed wood. We were alone now.

For a moment, there is only silence between us.

“You left me.” His voice was low, not angry, just full. Full of weight and ache. Like he was choking on the truth he hadn’t said out loud.