The waves of love in my life

The studio lights were hotter than Mira imagined.

She sat on a high stool, a microphone clipped to her collar, and a camera blinking red just a few feet away. Her hands rested in her lap, carefully folded, though her palms were damp with sweat.

Across from her sat Nila Wren—host of The Current, a nationally streamed conversation show known for its raw, live interviews with artists, activists, and public voices. Mira had admired Nila for years.

Now she was in her chair.

Live.

No scripts. No edits. No hiding.

Aaron waited just off-stage. She could see his silhouette behind the soft-lit curtain. His presence was her anchor.

"All right," Nila said to the camera. "Tonight, we speak with someone who turned personal pain into public poetry. Her piece, 'The Fall I Survived', has been viewed over 12 million times. Please welcome, Mira Ray."

The applause swelled—warm, genuine.

Mira smiled. Small. Nervous. Real.

The Interview Begins

Nila leaned forward. "Let's start here. Did you mean to become a voice for others, or did it just… happen?"

Mira took a breath. "It just happened. I wrote to survive. And then I shared it to stop hiding. I never thought it would become something people needed."

Nila nodded. "But they did need it."

Mira looked down. "I didn't know that until they started writing back."

The first few questions were soft. Kind. About her writing process. About what healing looked like day to day. Then came the shift.

Nila straightened. "Your piece mentions hospitalization. Medication. Darkness. Some critics say that kind of vulnerability is… irresponsible. That it might glorify pain. What do you say to that?"

The air thickened.

Mira's throat tightened—but she didn't flinch.

"I think hiding pain is what kills us," she said. "Speaking it doesn't glorify it. It takes away its power. And if even one person sees themselves in my truth and chooses to keep living… then I'll take the criticism."

The audience exhaled. A few clapped. Nila looked impressed.

Then came the hardest part.

"Your piece," Nila said, voice quieter now, "talks about your brother. That loss. The guilt. And you wrote, 'I dared him to climb.' Do you still blame yourself?"

Mira froze.

Her fingers curled in her lap.

She hadn't expected that one. Not so raw. Not so soon.

Aaron shifted behind the curtain. She didn't need to see him—she felt him, steady as always.

Mira's voice shook. "For a long time, I did. I thought if I hadn't laughed… if I hadn't dared him… maybe he'd still be alive."

Silence.

She looked up, eyes glimmering. "But I've learned that guilt and grief are twins. They wear each other's faces. And healing means learning to forgive yourself for things you never controlled."

The room was still.

Nila softened. "And now?"

"Now," Mira whispered, "I carry him with me. Not as a wound. As a reason to live better."

The Moment After

The interview ended to a standing ovation. But Mira didn't bask in it.

She walked off stage and straight into Aaron's arms. He didn't say anything. He just pulled her close and let her fall into him.

"You answered every question," he murmured.

"Barely," she breathed.

"Beautifully," he corrected.

Lena met them outside the studio, holding out her phone. "You're everywhere. Trending again. But this time… they're calling you a truth-teller."

Mira looked at the night sky. "Is that who I am now?"

Lena smiled. "It's who you've always been. Now the world just knows it too."

That Night

Mira couldn't sleep.

Not from fear—but from clarity. She stood at her window, watching headlights pass. Then she opened her laptop and began to write a new chapter for her memoir.

*"I thought the scariest part would be speaking the truth.

But it turns out… the scariest part is realizing people are actually listening.

And still, I will speak.

Because silence nearly cost me everything."*