CLOSED DOORS, OPEN HEARTS, HERE'S WHY
Listening to "You Should Come Over" by Emerge, captured here in Reseda, California, feels like a soundtrack to my transformation. This is where I now live, where new roots are sinking into the soil of possibility. Goodbye, Topanga Canyon—for good. The echoes of that place, both bittersweet and brimming with lessons, will remain a distant memory as I fully step into this new chapter of self-discovery and peace.
I live on the edge of Topanga Canyon and Woodland Hills, where the rugged beauty of nature collides with the constant hum of suburban life. It’s a place that feels as raw and stubborn as I do—a reflection of my struggle to find balance among the cliffs and chaos. But I wasn't always here. I’m from Reseda, California, a town I’ve called home for over a decade. Reseda shaped me, for better or worse, with its quiet streets and memories steeped in cheap thrills and heartbreak.
I remember meeting a guy in an AOL chat room back in those early days of the internet—an era where digital connection felt novel and thrilling. It was a time when you could whisper secrets into the void of a chatbox, not knowing if they’d be received with compassion or indifference. We talked endlessly about nothing and everything. And like so much else in my life, it ultimately amounted to more questions than answers, but it’s a memory that lingers, nonetheless.
Now, as I sit here staring at my screen, my wrists hurt from typing too much—hours spent wrestling with the weight of my thoughts. I’m done. Done with the acrid taste of disappointment clinging to the back of my throat. Done bearing the weight of my feelings in silence to keep others comfortable. Done pretending that what happened wasn’t an unforgivable betrayal of trust. You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Playing invincible, untouchable, orchestrating the twisted little script you’ve imagined. But here’s the truth—I hope you burn in hell.
And no, this isn’t some shock value outcry or a cheap ploy to string along the peanut gallery you cling to. If anything, it’s liberation—liberation from the grip you think you still have over me. This is for me. I live on the edge of Topanga Canyon, surrounded by cliffs and trails that don’t pretend to be anything they aren’t. They are solid, unapologetic, steadfast even under the pressure of wind and rain. Unlike you, who masks cowardice as chaos, walking the line between charm and damage whenever it suits your selfish whims.
Do you know what’s worse than falling for you? Realizing I was drawn to the illusion of you for an entire year. Like a moth to a flame, I stepped closer, oblivious to the danger, until everything burned. Fire doesn’t just provide warmth—it razes everything in its path. That fire destroyed my trust, my hope, and for a while, it destroyed me. I sit here now, knees pulled to my chest, fingers aching from typing words you’ll never read or care to understand. Piece by piece, you unraveled me. Not with honesty—because that’s not who you are—but with neglect, with apathy, with your inability to care.
And you know what? That’s fine, because I spent so long fighting for something that wasn’t real. I bled, screamed, and cried for you. But now, that’s over. It ends here. The wounds you left won’t be hidden away neatly so you can sleep better at night. They’ll stay raw, exposed, a reminder of who you are and how wrong I was to trust you. You're not deep. You're not different. And you’re sure as hell not worth another drop of my tears.
Starting now, my home—the space I found on the edge of this canyon—is mine and mine alone. For the next year, there will be no visitors, no laughter from those who bring more harm than joy, no half-hearted apologies for making this choice. My sanctuary isn’t a shelter for broken promises or superficial connections anymore. It’s a place for healing, for growth, for reclaiming the parts of me you tried to shatter. No longer will my doors swing open for those who fail to see my worth.
This time, this space, it’s for me. No explanations. No exceptions. No apologies.
-Ryder, Mitchell Royel