The Will to Resist

Letters Never Sent — Furnace Draft



I left OBE and found my voice in the heat of glass and sweat. I took my father’s nod, turned it into the Furnace and the Wall, and came out Boris. Now it feels like Fate sits in the cheap seats, laughing while I work the stage.

Sprouts isn’t a calling; it’s a station. I do the work at 100%, hit the mark, stack the shelves, and still feel the press. I’m fast because I am fast — not because I’m trying to show off. And yet they stay pressed. They can kick cans. I stay paid.

I’m not here to rescue, to fold myself into their mess, to be their glass block gospel. I’m here to keep the bills covered, stack Zeny, and carve out my own quiet. JP’s cool; the crew can rot. I’ve done enough being the strong one, the one who absorbs everyone else’s weight. I just want my space, my peace, my one person at the end of it all.

43 isn’t an ending. It’s just a mile marker. If I keep walking, keep swinging, keep sharpening, I’ll get to that quiet. Fate can laugh. I’ve walked through worse.

Signed, but never sent.


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