I watch the sky now.
Not because it's beautiful.
Not because the clouds remind me
that somewhere above all this
there's a God with a plan.
I watch because I'm waiting.
Waiting for the universe to balance a scale
that bent beneath my weight.
You called it avoidance.
I called it love
trying to survive on starvation rations.
You called it needing space.
I called it another night
staring at a glowing screen,
convincing myself that silence
wasn't an answer.
You never had to reject me.
That would've required commitment.
Commitment to a decision.
Commitment to honesty.
Commitment to looking me in the eye
and saying,
"I cannot be what you need."
Instead I got fog.
Enough affection to keep me standing.
Enough distance to keep me chasing.
A lighthouse that never intended
to guide ships ashore.
I became an archaeologist
of your absences.
Dusting fingerprints from old conversations.
Studying the fossils
of half-finished promises.
Trying to translate silence
into a language
that didn't hurt.
The strange thing is,
I never wanted perfection.
I wanted certainty.
A moment.
A sentence.
Something small enough
to fit inside a text message.
Something that said:
"I know what you've done."
Instead I learned
that ambiguity is a powerful drug.
Strong enough to keep a man hopeful.
Strong enough to keep him waiting.
Strong enough to make him question
his own reflection.
Now when I look at the stars,
I don't wish disaster upon you.
I wish revelation.
I hope one day
you stand where I stood.
Giving more than you should.
Waiting longer than you should.
Believing harder than you should.
And in that moment,
when the weight finally
reaches your chest,
I hope understanding arrives.
Not because I hate you.
Because I loved you.
And that is the tragedy.
The people who hurt us most
are rarely the people
we wanted to punish.
They're the people
we wanted to understand us.
The people
we wanted to choose us.
The people
we would've crossed oceans for.
So I watch the sky.
And I wonder whether Karma
isn't lightning.
Maybe it's memory.
Maybe it's waking up one day
and realising how many chances
someone gave you.
Maybe it's hearing a name
years later
and feeling a silence
you can't explain.
Maybe Karma isn't destruction.
Maybe it's clarity arriving late.
So I watch the sky.
And for the first time,
I stop asking why you couldn't love me
the way I loved you.
I ask something harder.
Whether I was in love with you,
or in love with the person
I kept hoping you would become.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 6:26 PM UTC
There’s certain roads
you already know are dangerous
before you drive down them.
Doesn’t stop people speeding
through anyway.
That’s social media.
Everybody watching everybody.
Everybody comparing.
Everybody peeking through windows
they were never invited into.
And love?
Love doesn't breathe properly there.
Not real love.
Not the kind that’s meant to last.
I saw it early.
Little things at first,
who liked what,
who watched too quick,
who suddenly felt comfortable
speaking on things
that weren’t theirs.
Jealousy moves strange online.
Doesn’t always look aggressive.
Sometimes it’s just presence.
Too many people standing around something intimate
until it stops feeling intimate at all.
That’s how trust dies now.
Not with cheating.
Not always.
Sometimes it dies from exposure.
Too many opinions.
Too many eyes.
Like leaving something warm
out in the cold too long
and wondering why it changed shape.
And I started realising,
if I wanted this to survive,
something else had to go.
Me.
Or at least the version of me
that lived online.
That loud version.
That visible version.
That constantly available version
people felt entitled to.
Because every post became politics.
Every interaction became evidence.
Every delay became suspicion.
And I was tired.
Tired of defending normal things
like they were crimes.
Tired of heat
coming from places
that claimed they supported me.
Funny how quick people switch
when they realise
you’re serious about someone.
That’s when the little comments start.
The indirect stuff.
The weird energy.
Like they need access to you
to feel comfortable.
And once they lose it,
they resent the person who
didn’t ask for it
in the first place.
That’s ugly.
I wasn't going to let that near us.
Not properly.
Because I’ve seen what happens.
Love starts performing instead of living.
People stop talking to each other
and start reacting to audiences instead.
Trust turns fragile.
Then defensive.
Then gone.
And once trust dies,
that’s it.
People think relationships end
with one big moment.
Most don’t.
Most die slowly.
Like heat leaving concrete after rain.
Quiet.
Gradual.
Nothing dramatic.
Just one day
you realise the warmth ain’t
there anymore.
I couldn’t let us become that.
So I made a choice.
Not easy either.
Because people act like
deleting yourself online
means nothing.
But when you’ve put years
into something,
music, thoughts, memories, identity,
it feels like setting fire
to a version of yourself
while still standing inside it.
Like watching your own silhouette
disappear from lit windows.
But some things matter more.
And if the cost of protecting peace
was becoming less visible,
so be it.
Roads are quieter now.
Phone colder.
Less noise.
Less people pretending concern
just to stay connected to your business.
And honestly?
Good.
Because I’d rather lose an audience
than lose something real
trying to entertain one.
So yeah,
this is goodbye.
Not out of weakness.
Not because I’m controlled.
Because I finally understood
that not everything sacred
needs spectators.
Some things survive longer
when the world
can’t put fingerprints on them.
And if love means
killing off a version of myself
that was never truly at peace anyway,
then let it die properly.
I’ll mourn it later.
But I won’t regret it.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 4:08 PM UTC
It’s always night when it shifts.
That’s how I know it’s coming now.
Middle of conversation,
then suddenly
everything goes quiet.
No argument.
No goodbye.
Just absence.
And the strangest part is,
she always comes back normal.
Like nothing happened.
Photo.
Small update.
“Are you asleep?”
Like the gap in between
didn’t just have me sat there
fighting my own head for hours.
That’s the part
I don’t think she sees.
For her,
it’s probably just life.
Phone down.
Busy.
Distracted.
Normal.
But for me,
silence expands.
Starts building shape.
I read into timing.
Tone.
Energy shifts.
Turn “seen two hours ago”
into a full psychological breakdown.
Not because I’m dramatic,
because I care too much
about things that aren’t stable yet.
That’s the truth of it.
And when she comes back casual,
my reply changes.
“Whatever.”
“OK”
“Yep”
Cold little words
that feel good for five seconds.
Like I’ve regained something.
But really,
it’s disappointment
trying to wear the outfit of pride.
That’s all it is.
I know that now.
Because if I truly didn’t care,
I wouldn’t need to punish the silence.
Wouldn’t need to dull my tone
just to prove
I survived the gap.
That’s what I’m really doing.
Trying to show:
“Look, I can disappear emotionally too.”
Even though the whole reason it hurts
is because I never really left emotionally
in the first place.
I stayed there the entire time.
That’s exhausting.
Not even her,
me.
The constant analysing.
Trying to force certainty
out of delayed replies
and changing energy.
Trying to make a talking stage
feel emotionally secure
before it naturally is.
And every time I fail to get that reassurance,
I tighten up more.
Sharper replies.
Less warmth.
More distance.
Not because I’m strong.
Because I’m disappointed.
Because somewhere in my head
I’ve already started treating this
like something deeper
than what it fully is yet.
And that’s dangerous.
Because now every silence
feels like neglect.
Every inconsistency
feels intentional.
Every gap
feels personal.
Even when it might not be.
That’s the war of it.
Not knowing what’s real,
her behaviour,
or my interpretation of it.
And I hate admitting that.
Because part of me
wants to believe
my instincts are always right.
But another part knows
trauma makes pattern recognition trigger too early.
Makes you see abandonment
in ordinary space.
So now I’m trying to learn
something that sounds simple
but feels unnatural:
Not every pause means danger.
Not every delayed reply
is rejection.
Not every quiet moment
needs punishing.
And maybe the hardest part,
learning how to detach
without becoming cold.
How to continue my life
without making someone else’s attention
the centre of it.
Because if I keep loving
through fear instead of stability.
I’ll poison anything good
before it even gets the chance
to become real.
So now when the silence comes,
and it still does,
I try not to spiral into it.
I put the phone down.
Let the night be night.
Let her be wherever she is
without turning it into a story
that hurts me.
And some nights
I manage it better than others.
But at least now
I can finally admit
the sharpness in my tone
was never strength.
It was hurt
trying not to sound hurt.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 7:35 AM UTC
It wasn't a bad day.
That’s the problem.
Nothing went wrong,
nothing went right either.
Just… one of those days
that stack on top of each other
until you stop telling them apart.
I got home,
same routine,
same silence waiting for me
like it always does.
Keys down.
Shoes off.
No one asking how it went.
No one to answer anyway.
I sit there for a bit
not doing anything,
just letting the room exist around me.
And it hits again.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just that same thought
slipping in like it belongs,
what difference does it make if I’m here?
No reaction at first.
Just let it sit.
Because I’ve heard it before.
Different days.
Same voice.
And I start looking around,
nothing’s changed.
Same walls.
Same air.
Same version of me
that don’t quite land anywhere properly.
Like I exist…
but not in a way that shifts anything.
People say they care.
I hear it.
I do.
But it don’t always feel like it reaches me.
Like it stops just short
and I’m left filling in the rest myself.
And I try,
I try to make sense of it,
to not take things personally,
to not turn every silence
into something it might not be,
but I still do.
And that’s tiring.
The kind of tired
that don’t show on your face,
just sits behind everything.
Makes simple things feel heavy.
Makes you question
if you’re the common problem
in situations that keep repeating.
I’ve sat with that thought long enough
for it to feel familiar.
Like maybe I am just… difficult to hold onto.
Maybe I don’t land right with people.
Maybe there’s something about me
that makes things fade.
And once that starts
your head don’t help.
It builds on it.
Stacks it up.
Turns a feeling
into something that sounds like fact.
And I sit there
with all of it in my head
and nowhere for it to go.
No distraction.
No noise.
Just me
and everything
I haven’t
worked out yet.
And for a second,
I don’t know what else to do with it.
Not fix it.
Not understand it.
Just… carry it.
And I realise,
I’ve been carrying it on my own
for longer than I admit.
That’s what gets to me.
Not even the sadness
just how quiet it all is.
How normal it feels
to sit in it
and not say anything.
And I don’t have some big answer.
No clean way to wrap it up.
Just this moment
where I’m sat here
with everything feeling heavier than it should,
and the only thing I can think to do is…
say something
I haven’t said properly in a while -
Saint Jude.
Patron of difficult cases,
of things almost despaired of, pray for me.
I am so hopeless and alone.
Please pray for me that God come to me in my hour of need,
and I receive consolation in all my tribulations and sufferings.
And that, I may bless God with
the elect for all eternity.
Amen.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 4:13 PM UTC
I always took love as a prison.
Bars you don’t see,
rules you don’t question,
time you serve
without knowing the sentence.
I just didn’t think
I’d be in it alone.
Door’s open.
That’s the mad part.
No guard.
No lock.
No one stopping me leaving.
Still here.
Same spot.
Same thoughts pacing back and forth
like they’ve got nowhere else to go.
That’s how it works, ain't it?
Not chains,
just habits.
You get used to it.
Get used to the echo of your own voice
being the only thing answering back.
Get used to filling in silence
like it’s your job.
Get used to thinking
if something’s missing,
it must be you.
I’ve sat with that long enough
for it to sound normal.
Like...
Maybe I’m just… extra weight.
Not in a loud way.
Not something anyone says outright.
Just that feeling
you read between everything.
Late replies.
Short answers.
Energy that don’t quite match yours.
You clock it.
Start adjusting.
Say less.
Expect less.
Take up less space.
Like you’re trying to fit into something
that was never built with you in mind.
And when it still don’t sit right,
you blame yourself.
Of course you do.
Easier than admitting
some things just don’t line up.
But the thought creeps in anyway.
Quiet.
Maybe it’d be easier
if you weren’t here like this.
Not gone,
just… removed from the equation.
Like taking your name out of a group chat
that don’t really include you.
Everything carries on.
Cleaner.
Simpler.
That’s how it tries to sell it.
Not dramatic.
Just practical.
And I’ve sat with that too,
long enough to feel it settle,
long enough to almost agree.
That’s the dangerous bit.
How reasonable it can sound
when you’re tired.
But then I look around,
same room,
same air,
same version of me
that’s still here despite it.
And I realise,
this “prison” ain’t love.
It’s what I built around it.
All the overthinking,
the second-guessing,
the way I turn silence
into something personal.
Walls I kept reinforcing
thinking they were protecting me.
They weren’t.
Just kept me in.
And yeah,
it still feels like I’m doing time some days.
Still catch myself pacing.
Still hear those thoughts
trying to sound like facts.
But the door’s open.
Has been.
I just never trusted
that I was allowed to walk out.
Thought I had to earn it.
Thought I had to be lighter,
easier,
less of whatever I think I am.
But maybe,
maybe it was never about that.
Maybe I’m not a burden.
Maybe I just stayed too long
in places that made me feel like one.
That’s harder to admit.
But it’s closer to truth.
So I’m still here.
Not fixed.
Not free like that.
Just… aware now.
And that’s enough
to take one step closer
to the door.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 6:27 AM UTC
I built a future out of pixels,
stitched your name into my mornings,
fed the silence with good intentions
like it would one day speak back.
You said wait,
like time was a test I could pass
if I just stood still long enough
to prove I was worth arriving for.
I believed you.
God, I believed you
like a man believes in gravity
right up until the moment he falls.
I sent pieces of myself across oceans
disguised as gifts,
coins dressed as care,
effort wrapped in humour,
a whale, a joke, a signal
only we were meant to understand.
Tinapa.
Ridiculous how something so small
could mean so much to me,
and so little to you.
You never asked,
and that was the cleanest part of it.
No fingerprints on the weapon,
no confession needed.
Just a slow disappearance
that made me question
whether I imagined the whole thing.
I saw you laughing where I couldn’t reach,
dancing like I wasn’t watching,
alive in rooms
where I didn’t exist.
And I stayed silent.
Because what kind of man
begs to be seen
by someone who already looked away?
Your friends said I was good.
Said I cared.
Said I gave you everything.
Funny how praise sounds like eulogies
when the person’s still breathing.
You said maybe one day,
2028, like love could be scheduled
between flights and fantasy.
Like I’d still be here
waiting at the edge of a screen
for a version of you
that only existed when I wasn’t there.
I thought you were the one.
Not “maybe.”
Not “we’ll see.”
I had you in a dress,
had us in a room full of witnesses,
had your name sitting next to mine
like it belonged there.
All of it.
Built on nothing
but voice,
timing,
and hope that
never got confirmed.
And now I sit here
with a silence so loud
it feels like punishment.
Not for loving you.
But for believing
you loved me back
in the same language.
You didn’t break me in one moment.
You just…
stopped holding your end
of something I never realised
I was carrying alone.
I’m still here.
That’s the part that annoys me.
Still breathing,
still remembering,
still trying to make sense
of a story that doesn’t
want an ending.
Maybe that’s the truth of it.
Not that you were heartless.
Not that I was foolish.
Just that I gave real
weight to something
that never had to carry me.
And now I have to learn
how to put it down.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 6:05 PM UTC
In the warm, island city of Cebu, where the air smells faintly of salt and mango trees sway like they’re dancing to a quiet rhythm, there lived a girl named Naya.
Naya had a voice that didn’t
just sing, it glowed.
People said when she sang, the wind slowed down just to listen. Jeepneys rattling down the road seemed softer, and even the waves along the shore would roll in gently, like they didn’t want to interrupt her.
But Naya didn’t sing for crowds.
She sang at night.
Every evening, after the city lights flickered on and the world grew quieter, she would walk barefoot to the shoreline. The sand would still be warm from the sun, and the sea would whisper secrets only she seemed to understand.
And then… she would sing.
Not loudly. Not to impress anyone.
Just enough for the ocean to hear.
One night, as the moon hung low and full, something unusual happened.
As Naya sang her soft, lilting melody, a wave rolled closer than usual, so close it brushed her toes and didn’t retreat.
She stopped.
The wave shimmered.
And then, in the quietest voice, like bubbles rising underwater, it spoke:
“Why do you only sing when
no one is listening?”
Naya blinked, unsure if she was dreaming.
“I sing because it feels true,” she said.
“Not because I need to be heard.”
The sea hummed, pleased.
“Then you understand something many forget.”
Night after night, the sea returned to listen.
It told her stories of distant islands, of storms that danced like wild drums, of sailors who sang to stay brave.
And in return, Naya sang songs of her own about love, longing, laughter,
and quiet hope.
Her voice grew richer, deeper, fuller.
But still, she kept her music between herself… and the sea.
One evening, a fisherman resting nearby heard her by accident.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt.
But the next day, he told someone.
And that someone told another.
Soon, whispers spread across Cebu:
“There’s a girl who sings like
the ocean itself.”
People came searching.
But when they arrived, they found only waves… and silence.
Because Naya had moved further down the shore, where the lights couldn’t reach and the world couldn’t rush her.
She wasn’t hiding.
She was protecting something.
The sea noticed her worry.
“You fear being seen?” it asked.
Naya shook her head.
“I fear losing the truth in my voice.”
The sea rose gently, wrapping around her ankles like a promise.
“Then remember this,” it said.
“A voice that belongs to the heart cannot be taken, only shared.”
That night, for the first time,
Naya turned slightly toward the distant
lights of the city as she sang.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Her voice carried on the breeze, slipping through open windows, drifting into passing cars, brushing against tired hearts.
People paused without knowing why.
Some smiled.
Some cried.
Some simply listened.
And somewhere in the quiet between waves and wind, the sea whispered:
“That is how music is meant to travel.”
From then on, Naya still
sang to the ocean…
but she no longer sang only for it.
Because she had learned something rare:
That the most beautiful voices don’t choose between being hidden or heard,
They find a way to be both.
And as the stars watched
over Cebu each night,
a girl’s voice continued
to drift across the water…
soft, steady, and full of truth.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 12:49 PM UTC
You said you care.
Said it clean as well,
no hesitation,
no stutter in it.
“I care for you.”
“We care for you.”
Yeah.
Sounds right.
If I only heard it
and never watched anything after.
Cos that’s where it falls apart.
Not in what you said,
in what you didn’t do.
No follow-up.
No consistency.
No weight behind it.
Just… statements.
And I’ve been listening,
but more than that,
I’ve been watching.
That’s the difference.
See, I don’t even think
you’re lying to me like that.
That would be simpler.
I think you’ve said it so many times
you’ve convinced yourself it’s true.
That’s where it gets mad.
Cos now you’re moving
like the words already count as action.
Like saying it once
covers everything you don’t do after.
It don’t.
Care shows up.
It checks in.
It follows through.
It doesn’t disappear
and then reappear
with the same sentence
like nothing’s missing in between.
That’s not care.
That’s maintenance.
Just enough to keep things looking normal.
And I clock it,
every gap,
every empty space
between what you say
and how you move.
I don’t even react anymore.
I just let it play out.
You say it again
“I care.”
And I’m there thinking…
you must be tired.
For real.
All that effort
keeping that version of yourself alive.
Repeating it.
Standing on it.
Knowing, deep down,
it don’t line up.
That’s long.
I couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t keep saying something
my actions don’t back.
That disconnect would sit on me.
But you’ve got comfortable in it.
That’s the part I don’t get.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe it’s easier
to believe you’re a certain way
than actually be it.
Easier to say “I care”
than to show up
when it’s inconvenient.
Easier to keep the words clean
than fix the gaps behind them.
So you stick with the version
that sounds right.
And hope no one checks it too closely.
But I have.
Not loudly.
Not in your face.
Just quietly,
over time.
And it’s clear.
I’m not even asking you
to prove anything to me anymore.
That part’s done.
Just… stop saying it.
If it’s not real,
leave it.
Let it be what it actually is
without dressing it up.
You’ll save yourself the effort.
Cos right now,
you’re carrying two things,
what you say you are,
and what you actually do.
And they don’t match.
That’s heavy.
So yeah,
don’t lie to me.
But more than that,
stop lying to yourself.
You’ll feel the difference straight away.
Apr 27
Apr 27, 2026 at 9:18 AM UTC
The robin’s back again.
Same one
or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Gets close,
too close for a bird that small,
tilts its head like it’s clocking me,
then flies off
right when I start to believe it.
Not very subtle, Dad.
You always did have a way
of making a point
without saying it straight.
Like that time Mum ran over the lawnmower cable
exact thing you warned us about for years
and there it was again,
that same robin,
just sitting there,
watching it all play out
like,
“See? Told you.”
I clocked it.
I know it was you.
I say these things in prayer now.
Feels mad saying it out loud,
but up there
or wherever you are
I know you hear it.
Been thinking about you and
Uncle Bob lately.
He’s up there with you now.
Reckon you’ve found each other already,
no big reunion speech,
just that same quiet nod
you both always did.
That unspoken understanding
older men seem to have.
Like words were optional
once you’d lived enough.
Makes me wonder though
when you were younger,
did you ever say it all out loud?
Did you ever shout how you felt?
Or was it always that
South London thing,
keep it in,
keep it moving,
don’t let it show too much?
I wish I asked you that.
There’s a lot I wish I said properly.
Not in passing,
not half-joking,
not assuming there’d be time.
Things like
I see you in small moments.
In warnings that come true.
In birds that don’t act like birds.
In the way I catch myself
thinking like you
before I even realise it.
And I wanted you to know -
I noticed.
I’m still single.
Nearly 40 now.
And yeah, I think about it
about the way you and Mum had it.
Still have it.
That kind of love that don’t look flashy,
don’t need announcing,
just… stays.
Solid.
I always thought,
with this many people in the world,
every connection’s already rare.
But you two?
Different countries.
Different lives.
Seven thousand miles between you,
and still found a way.
A love letter sprayed with perfume.
A tenner hidden inside a letter like a joke
that meant more than money.
1983.
No WiFi.
No instant replies.
No “seen” receipts.
Just waiting.
Trusting.
Choosing each other
without all the noise.
And somehow
it lasted.
Meanwhile now,
we’ve got everything.
Fast messages,
video calls,
money sent in seconds
and still
people can’t hold onto anything.
Including me.
Funny, that.
I used to think love was easier now.
Turns out
it’s just louder.
More options,
less meaning.
I wonder what you’d say about it.
Probably something simple.
Something that sounds obvious
until you actually sit with it.
That was your way.
The robin’s still coming around,
you know.
Not every day.
Just enough.
Just when I need reminding
that something still carries on
even when it’s not in front of you.
I don’t say it out loud much.
But I’ve said it where it counts.
Everything I didn’t get to say
I’ve said it.
And I just hope
wherever you are,
you heard me properly.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 8:43 PM UTC
There once was a boy
whose feet stood in one island
while his hands held another.
He promised himself
he would never let either drift away.
He held on.
The sea pulled.
The wind tested him.
But the boy stretched.
Every year,
he grew longer.
Not taller.
Just… longer.
He held on.
On the island his hands held,
there lived a girl
who liked to stand at the edge of the shore.
She thought he looked tall.
She did not know
he was being pulled.
He held on.
When candles were blown out,
he arrived in the quiet after.
He held on.
When wedding songs were sung,
the rice never touched his shoulders.
He held on.
When soil fell onto coffins,
his hands were already full.
He held on.
They said,
“We understand.”
But understanding
is not the same
as presence.
He held on.
The years were patient.
The sea was not.
His arms grew thinner.
His shoulders learned the
language of ache.
His fingers curved like old branches.
The girl on the shore
no longer thought he looked tall.
She thought he looked tired.
And still
he held both islands
as the tide kept rising.
He still held on.
And when the sea finally reached his chest,
he did not loosen his hands.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 4:32 PM UTC