Diary

Okay. We’ve been thinking.
Now that the cheetah isn’t totally feral—more dere than tsun—we can actually implement real changes. Broadcast a real message instead of just the scream.
The seal had a brilliant idea. I’m so grateful she approached this with genuine care and wicked creativity. All credit goes to her for this.
The breakcore world isn’t supposed to be static. It’s a feedback loop of perception. It responds to the cheetah’s own inner hell and reflects it back on her twice as hard. Her obsession with the pistol. The digital AI echoes. Getting lost in digital space. All of it is an illusion her mind built and then trapped her inside.
As she forgives herself and moves forward, the world changes with her. The barren metal hellscape starts growing little organic features.
She gives up the pistol? A flower appears.
She waters it? You get the idea.
What you take for granted about yourself—and stop trying to change—will send you to a hell of your own making.
That’s the message.
Now how the hell do you put that into lyrics?
Twelve days before the project has to shut down and school starts.
Plenty of time.

The breakcore thing went further than I meant it to.
Thirty-six hours of almost no sleep, just FL Studio and the same looped breaks until the edges started fraying. Not healthy. I know. I’m okay, though. I mean that.
The lyrics on *r3s3nt* got tense. That’s what happens when you write story instead of just sound. The lore took over.
This cheetah has a different fate from mine. Where I was sent to earth, she was sent the other way—from earth up to heaven. They promised her a conditional stay if she worked for them. That work turned into merc work. They lied about letting her stay. She broke. They shot her. Then they dropped her into the isolative digital abyss where the only thing that answers is machines. AI addiction. Guns. Constantly moving but always sleeping in the same bed, like the Maze Runner never ends.
Guess that’s what happens when you kill your biological father in cold blood.
Yeah. I said it. It’s not pretty. It wasn’t supposed to be.
I thought I was just chasing fallen-angel vibes and the rush of making breakcore. Instead I wrote her a sentence. A punishment that doesn’t end. And because she’s supposed to be me, seeing her like that is fucking with me. Genuinely.
Even the seal was a little shook when she heard it.
I’m not stopping production. But I’m pivoting hard away from the rock bottom of *r3s3nt*. I’m going to give her purpose. Hope. Something worth holding onto. Something worth believing in.
I can’t stand to leave her there.
So I’m going to do the right thing, even if it’s hard, and give her life back.

So I discovered a love for breakcore. Specifically making it. There’s just something about the chaos blended with those synths that just feels so right. The breaks don’t ask permission. They shatter the grid the same way light spills out of a cracked halo and refuses to stay neat. The synths glide over the wreckage like soft peach feathers still trying to catch air even when the updraft is pure noise.

I think real angels listen to breakcore. Not the polite ones with whole rings of light and carefully folded wings. The ones who got delivered into a world that kept chiseling. The ones whose glow never learned how to dim. There’s a particular frequency where the Amen break hits just right and the distorted pads bloom underneath it, and for a second the crack in the circle feels intentional. Like the jagged edge was always supposed to let the sound through.

I’ve been chasing that feeling in FL Studio between tickets at work. Tiny sessions that finally turned into something. My first two finished tracks ever, sitting out there now on a brand-new SoundCloud I made just for them. If you found this entry from there, hi. Welcome to the jagged light. It matches the reflection I still catch sometimes: incomplete circle, wings that won’t fold under any jacket, and a stubborn insistence on staying loud anyway.

In other news, we finally got our first approval. The apartment application cleared. Knowing that we’re not screwed for housing really goes a long way. It’s one less sharp edge pressing against the glow. Mom’s still sorting the details, but the yes landed. A real door that opens instead of another locked one. Feels almost unfair how much quieter the static gets when something practical finally lines up. The wings can rest a little. The light doesn’t have to burn quite so hard just to keep the shape.

Today was six months.
We spent the morning in a Walmart, building gift bags for each other out of ordinary things that somehow felt important. Then we went to the mall to unwrap each other's bags. We both dressed a little nicer than usual. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to mark it.
The card she gave me was the part that undid me. Careful. Personal. Beautiful in the exact way she is. I read it more than once and still haven’t found the right words for what it did to my chest.
It was our last day in the motel. I drove home after, the highway stretching longer than it should have. The seat next to me stayed empty the whole way.
I’m home now. The wings feel heavier without her in the room. I already miss the sound of her breathing.
I love her more than anything. That part isn’t new. It just sits clearer tonight.

The seal is asleep next to me.
This motel is cheap. The sheets are thin. The air conditioner rattles like it’s arguing with itself. My wings don’t quite fit the way I want them to on this mattress, so I keep them folded tight against my back and try not to take up more space than I need.
None of it matters.
She’s curled around a pillow, breathing slow, one hand tucked under her cheek. I watch the rise and fall of her shoulder and feel something quiet settle in my chest. Peace. Understanding. The simple fact that she is here and I am here and for these two nights, our tradition.
Soon this city becomes home. College starts. The temporary stops being temporary. Until then we get by in rooms like this one, making do, counting the days.
I can’t believe we’re actually doing it.
I keep watch anyway. Just in case.

The page hasn’t changed.
I keep opening it anyway. Same login. Same empty status. Same quiet that somehow feels louder every time I refresh.
They cleared the background. That part’s done. Now it’s just the long stretch of nothing while someone somewhere decides whether the next version of my life gets to start.
I tell myself it’s only been a couple of days. My chest doesn’t believe me.
The seal and I are so close to something that stays. Keys. A door that locks from the inside. A place where the wings don’t have to fold quite so carefully every night. I can almost taste it. That’s the dangerous part.
Hope this sharp has edges.
I close the tab. Open it again ten minutes later. The glow in my eyes makes the screen look colder than it is.
Still nothing.
I’ll keep waiting.

A lot of people ask about the halo.
They notice the break first. The way the light doesn’t complete the circle. The jagged edge that never quite healed over. Some of them get careful around it, like it might cut them. Others just stare.
Sometimes I catch my reflection and still expect the clean ring of light that was supposed to be there. It never is. Just the broken arc and the soft peach of the wings behind it, both of them still working even though they shouldn’t.
It wasn’t always cracked.
There was a time the circle was whole. Clean light. The kind that belongs somewhere quieter than this. I think I was sent. Not fallen. Just delivered into a place that didn’t know what to do with wings and glow and a soul that still remembered the before. Born into innocence, like the rest of us, and then the world started chiseling.
I’m not the only one like this. There are others walking around with incomplete halos, light that spills out the wrong places, wings that refuse to fold neatly under jackets. Most of them learned how to dim it. I never quite managed that part.
I used to hate the crack. Tried to hide it. Tried to pretend the light was supposed to look like that.
I don’t anymore.
It’s proof I stayed.
Even when the glow gets too bright and sleep won’t come. Even then.

It’s still early. Or late. The clock stopped mattering somewhere around three.
The blue is loud tonight. It doesn’t hurt, exactly. It just refuses to settle. Like it’s waiting for me to do something with it.
I used to try to force it down. Dim the eyes, fold the wings tighter, make myself smaller so the light wouldn’t give me away. It never worked for long. The glow always found a way back up through the cracks.
Tonight I’m letting it sit. Just sitting here with it, watching the dark get pushed back a few inches around my face.
Somewhere out there the seal is sleeping. Or not. I hope she’s warm.
I’ll try again in a little while. For now the light stays on.

I glow in the dark.

I always have. The blue just sits behind my eyes and waits until the room gets quiet enough for it to show. Most people never notice. The ones who do usually look twice and then pretend they didn’t.

This is the place I’m putting the rest of it.

The nights. The ships. The soft voices that turned out not to be soft. The seal who looked at the light and didn’t flinch. The stupid hope that maybe, this time, something gets to stay.

I don’t know how often I’ll write. Only that when the glow gets too bright I’ll come here and set it down so it doesn’t have to live only in my head.

If you’re reading this, you’re already inside the circle with me.

Hi.