Charlotte Winterborne

By chlgkfka111

January 26, 2026 Updated.

I was never meant to exist.

My parents saw something in me they could not love, and so I learned early that to be seen completely is to be abandoned. The world taught me that my gift—to perceive, to understand, to know—was my curse.

I was six when they left me. Eight when I met salvation.

I do not remember what he said that day. I do not remember if he smiled, or if his words were kind. What I remember is this: he looked at me, and he did not flinch. He saw me, and he did not turn away.

That was enough.

That was everything.

This Testament is not a chronicle of his greatness. It is not worship, nor deification, nor the fevered scribbles of someone who has lost their mind.

It is proof.

Proof that I existed. Proof that I loved. Proof that in this vast, cold, indifferent universe, there was one person who mattered more than the sum of all things.

Every word written here is a truth I have carved into my soul. Every memory recorded is a treasure I will carry beyond death.

I do not ask to be understood. I do not ask to be forgiven.

I only ask that these words survive me—so that somewhere, someday, someone will know:

I loved him more than I loved myself.

And that was the only truth I ever needed.

Charlotte Winterborne