Broken Wings

Everyone told Mia she was too sensitive, too dramatic, too emotional, too much. But no one ever asked why she flinched at raised voices or held her breath around people who said they loved her. 

She turned eighteen with a soft voice, silent scars, and no one she truly trusted. 

But this story isn’t about who broke her. It’s about the day she decided to stop letting them win. 

Mia learned early that love came with conditions. Her mother’s love depended on how clean the house was. Her father’s praise arrived only after academic perfection. Her siblings teased her constantly, then claimed she “couldn’t take a joke” whenever she cried. 

By age ten, she knew how to cook dinner, fix her little brother’s math homework, and smile through a bruised heart. 

By age fourteen, she could predict the volume of her father’s voice just by the way he walked through the front door. 

By sixteen, she stopped crying altogether. 

Her best friend Chloe often said, “You need to toughen up, Mia. You let people walk all over you.” 

She wanted to scream that it wasn’t letting when you were never given a choice. 

At school, Mia played the role of the golden girl. Teachers adored her. She volunteered, got straight A’s, smiled when asked. But no one saw the way her hands trembled under her desk. Or the late nights spent re-writing essays that were already perfect. 

Her first boyfriend, Tyler, seemed different at first. Charming. Attentive. But he hated when she wore makeup. Called her names when she spoke to male classmates. Read her texts when she left her phone unlocked. 

“You make me crazy because I love you,” he said the first time he yelled in her face. 

The second time, he broke her phone. 

The third, he broke her heart. 

College was supposed to be her escape. 

She chose a university two states away with a partial scholarship and dreams of breathing for the first time. Her dorm was tiny, but it was hers. Her roommate, Tasha, was loud and kind and nosy in the best way. 

“You always apologize before you speak,” she said one morning. “Like you’re scared of me.” 

“I’m not scared of you,” Mia said, then immediately added, “Sorry.” 

Tasha stared. “Girl. That’s… tragic.” 

Mia laughed it off, but that night, she stared at the ceiling and counted the number of times she’d said sorry that day. Twenty-eight. 

The next day, she met Jonah. 

He sat next to her in Intro to Psych and offered her a pencil when hers snapped. He had quiet eyes, the kind that didn’t just look at you but saw through you. 

“You read a lot,” he said after two weeks of sitting beside her. “What’s your favorite?” 

She blinked. No one had ever asked her that before. 

“Anything where the girl saves herself,” she murmured. 

He smiled. “Good answer.” 

They started meeting at the library. Not on purpose at first. Then very much on purpose. 

Jonah didn’t ask invasive questions. He didn’t touch her unless she reached first. He listened when she spoke and made her laugh without making her feel small. 

One rainy evening, they sat near the window while thunder rolled in the distance. Mia was reading, but she could feel Jonah watching her. 

“You talk about yourself like you’re the villain in your own story,” he said. 

Her breath caught. 

“You’re not,” he added. “You’re the girl people root for. Even if they never told you.” 

Something cracked open inside her. 

A week later, her mother called. 

“Your father wants to know if you’re coming home for his birthday.” 

“I have midterms.” 

“Midterms? Mia, it’s his birthday. Don’t be selfish.” 

The word clanged like a bell in her chest. Selfish. 

She opened her mouth to agree, to say she’d take a bus, rearrange her schedule, miss classes. 

Then she heard Jonah’s voice in her head: You’re the girl people root for. 

“I can’t come,” she said. “And honestly? I don’t want to.” 

Silence. 

“Excuse me?” her mom hissed. 

“You heard me.” 

Her mom hung up. Mia stared at the phone, half-expecting her to call back. She didn’t. 

For the first time, Mia felt… free. 

She started writing again. Short stories. Pieces of herself she buried under years of pleasing others. She wrote about girls with shaking hands and steel spines. About broken things that still shined. 

She showed Jonah one. He read it slowly, carefully. 

“This is you,” he said softly. 

“It’s fiction.” 

“No,” he said. “It’s survival.” 

He reached across the table and touched her hand. She didn’t flinch. 

Two months later, she entered her story into a university contest. It was called The Quiet Girl Who Roared. 

She won. 

She stood on stage to accept the award, heart pounding. The auditorium lights blinded her, but she knew Jonah was in the front row. 

“This story,” she said into the mic, “is for every girl who was told she was too much. Or not enough. Or too broken to be loved. You are not the problem. You are the hero.” 

Tears filled her eyes. And when the audience clapped, she didn’t shrink. 

She stood taller. 

Afterward, Jonah met her by the exit. He held flowers, not roses, but sunflowers. Bright. Bold. 

“For you,” he said. 

She smiled. “Why sunflowers?” 

“Because they always face the light. Like you.” 

Mia kissed him. 

It was her first kiss that didn’t feel like a trap. 

She went no-contact with her family six months later. 

It wasn’t easy. Her sister texted. Her dad left angry voicemails. Her mom sent photos of the family without her. 

But she never responded. 

She got therapy. Kept writing. Stayed with Jonah through finals, summer, and into the next school year. 

One night, they sat on the campus rooftop, watching stars blink into life. 

“Do you ever feel… angry?” Mia asked. 

“For what they did to you? All the time.” 

She nodded slowly. 

“But also grateful,” she added. “Because I survived them. And found me.” 

He turned to her. “And I found you.” 

She published her first book at twenty-three. It was called The Quiet Girl Who Roared. 

And on the dedication page, it read: 

For the girl I used to be. You never needed their permission to heal. 

Comment question: Have you ever had to unlearn something painful from your past just to love yourself better?