I can still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface.
But deep down, I know that behind this anger, there is sadness—a sadness that I can’t seem to shake. Maybe that’s why I still feel so heavy inside.
I’ve forgiven everyone, or at least I’ve tried to. So why does the anger remain?
Maybe it’s because, deep down, I want to tell my side of the story to the world.
But no one seems to listen.
Maybe I don’t even want to share it anymore.
But what if I did? Would it make any difference?
I doubt it.
The last time I spoke up, my words felt like rays passing through a magnifying glass, burning me alive. No one listened. No one believed me.
They painted me as the villain, and I’ve learned to live with that. But sometimes, I find myself wishing that those who hurt me could feel the same pain—the same anger and sadness that consumed me.
But what if they did?
Would they think it’s kifarah, the consequences of wronging me?
Would they feel the weight of the stones they once threw, disrupting everything I spent years building?
What happens next?
Maybe it’s true that it’s not my place to seek revenge or wish for punishment. But why do I still long for it? Why do I crave the validation of knowing that they’ve felt my pain? Does that make me a bad person?
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