Never doubt
my capacity to fall in love again.
Never doubt
that when I give,
I give fully.
I don’t offer fragments.
I don’t ration affection.
I don’t calculate exits.
When I love someone,
I hand them my present,
my past,
and the future I haven’t even lived yet.
Never confuse my softness
with fragility.
Yes, sometimes love has shattered in my hands.
Yes, sometimes it has exploded in my face.
But that has never changed
who I am.
I love love.
I love loving.
And that is not naïve —
it’s intentional.
So never question my depth.
Never question my loyalty.
Never question my timing.
Because when I love,
I am not experimenting.
I am not passing time.
I am building.
I am staying.
I am choosing you
for the long run.
When I love,
I love.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 6:07 PM UTC
There was a low point in my life
where I thought I had made it—
I thought I had everything.
And it wasn’t that it wasn’t enough.
It was everything I wanted,
just handed to me too early,
too fast
for someone young and naïve
who didn’t know what to do
with having it all.
So I made mistakes.
Conversations hidden behind locked screens.
Pictures I never meant to keep.
Long nights of messages
that stretched further than they should have.
Things he never found out.
Things he never will.
There were runaways—
escapes into borrowed rooms,
illicit meetings
and stolen glances in public
that felt louder than words.
Every time he asked,
I said no.
Even when the truth
burned in my throat.
I told myself it wasn’t love.
Not even lust, really.
Just a hollow place
being temporarily filled.
A secret life
that existed in silence.
We never named it.
We never explained it.
We just waited for those moments
to happen again.
And I told myself
this was human.
But when I look back now,
I see it clearly:
I wasn’t being human.
I was being unfaithful.
I became someone
I wouldn’t have forgiven
if the roles were reversed.
And that’s a truth
I had to sit with
until it stopped echoing
and started sounding like a lesson.
Not an excuse.
Not a justification.
Just a scar
I chose to understand
instead of hide.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 12:30 PM UTC
Sometimes we have to get tired.
Tired of the noise.
Tired of the almost.
Tired of carrying things that once felt necessary
but now only feel heavy.
We don’t let go because we’re weak.
We let go because we’re full.
And there is no space for what matters
when your hands are already holding
what should have been released.
The more you grip,
the less you receive.
It hurts to let go.
Of people.
Of versions of yourself.
Of dreams that no longer fit.
It feels like loss at first—
like something is being taken.
But sometimes nothing is being taken.
Sometimes space is being created.
Rooms don’t become beautiful
because we keep filling them.
They become beautiful
because we clear them.
Letting go isn’t failure.
It’s rearranging.
It’s trusting that what is meant to stay
doesn’t require you
to clutch it with both hands.
And what is meant to arrive
needs room to enter.
Sometimes we have to get tired
so we can finally choose
what deserves to stay.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 11:16 AM UTC
Were there clues
I didn’t see?
Sometimes I replay it in my head—
all those years of noticing you
without really noticing you.
You were there,
somewhere in the background,
a road I passed often
but never once considered taking.
Not because it wasn’t there.
Just because I wasn’t ready
to wonder where it led.
And I think about that veil—
the one life places gently over your eyes
when someone isn’t meant to be seen yet.
Not hidden,
just out of focus.
I believe that’s what happened to us.
You existed in my orbit
but never in my story.
Not then.
The veil only lifted
when we had both changed enough
to recognize each other.
Because by then
I had stopped believing in fairy tales.
Stopped waiting for the one.
Stopped trusting promises
of happy endings
and forever written in advance.
I learned the hard way
that love isn’t destiny—
it’s timing,
growth,
and two people becoming
who they’re meant to be
at the same moment.
And now when I look at you,
I don’t see who you were back then.
I see who you are now.
More importantly,
I see who you’re no longer trying to be.
Just like me.
Maybe that’s why we clicked—
not because we were always meant to,
but because one day
we were finally ready to.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 12:43 PM UTC
One thing I have to accept
is that the final epic battle isn’t coming.
There’s no dramatic return.
No moment where you walk back in
and I finally say everything
I rehearsed in my head a thousand times.
I keep staging it anyway—
imagining the lines,
the perfect timing,
the version of me who wins.
But sometimes I have to admit
there is no final scene.
Justice isn’t always served.
Some stories end
with the villain riding calmly into the sunset
while you’re left standing in the dust,
still holding a sword
no one is coming back to fight.
There’s no courtroom for the heart.
No appeal.
No speech that restores your honor.
Sometimes the white knight
was never white to begin with.
Sometimes the love story you swore you were living
was a horror story in disguise.
And the cruelest part is this:
the hero doesn’t always survive.
Not in the way stories promise.
Sometimes the hero lives—
but without the victory,
without applause,
without closure.
Just the quiet knowledge
that the battle is over
And you have to learn
how to put the armor down
without ever hearing the final bell.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 11:02 PM UTC
I never got to be young.
And that’s something I’m still learning how to forgive you for.
I remember tasting freedom once—
just a second of it—
and then I fell in love again
with a love that asked me to behave.
A love with rules.
No late nights.
No parties.
No drinking.
No mistakes.
Be quiet.
Be good.
Be better than everyone else.
But what if I didn’t want to be better?
What if I just wanted to be young?
I wanted nights with my friends
that blurred at the edges.
I wanted to get too drunk once
and swear I’d never do it again.
I wanted to kiss strangers
and wake up laughing at my bad decisions.
I wanted mistakes
that grow into stories
you tell at crowded tables years later.
I never got that version of youth.
And nothing can return stolen time.
That’s a grief I carry quietly.
But look at me now—
I have the life I asked for in whispers.
The friends.
The messy apartments.
The music too loud.
The house parties that stretch into morning.
The oops.
The you did what?
The beautiful chaos of being alive.
And the best part is coming home
and telling it all to someone
who doesn’t try to shrink me for it.
That’s progress.
Not perfection—
progress.
And maybe I didn’t get to be young then.
But I am learning how to be young now.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 10:52 PM UTC
Did you know I used to beg for a sign?
Something—someone—
to tell me I was doing things right.
Eventually, I understood there was no way out.
I felt trapped.
Incarcerated in a life I didn’t know how to leave.
I imagined my future self shouting at me,
You knew this wasn’t right.
And I kept asking—
Then why can’t I go?
I wasn’t brave enough
to say I wasn’t happy.
So I looked for permission instead.
I studied your social media like proof.
I searched for cracks I could step through.
I built stories in my head:
He’s cheating.
He’s hiding something.
He’s somewhere else even when he’s here.
Was I right?
I’ll never know.
When it finally ended,
I told myself I was free—
but freedom hurt more than staying.
Maybe because I wasn’t ready.
Maybe because I had already left in my mind
but not in my body.
I thought endings were supposed to feel clean.
Like relief.
Like certainty.
Instead, it felt like being pushed out
of a door I was still standing in.
And I realized something terrifying—
I didn’t lose you.
I lost the version of myself
who believed she still had time to choose.
I lost control of the narrative.
Of the story.
Of my story.
How dare you be the writer?
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 9:17 PM UTC
Is this the end of all endings?
That’s the question I use to decide everything:
Is this a story worth telling?
When a lover does me wrong,
I fight with everything I have—
not to keep them,
but to understand.
And when I’m done,
I let them go quietly
and say,
this is where the story ends.
That’s why I’ve never taken a lover back.
It’s impossible.
The ending already happened.
There are no extra chapters for what’s already been said.
No sequels for stories that lost their meaning.
Because repetition is boring.
And I refuse to turn my life
into a book where people sigh and say,
Oh—this again?
No.
I choose novelty.
I choose momentum.
I choose the thrill of a first page.
I never keep a story going
past the moment it stops being alive.
I close the book.
I start a new one.
That’s how I survive.
That’s how I stay interesting.
That’s how I make sure
my life
is always
a story worth telling.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 11:55 PM UTC
One thing about me—
I don’t have another way of loving.
I was told once
my problem is that I give too much,
too fast,
too fiercely.
The kind of love that makes you feel—
deeply.
Unconditionally.
Pure at the core.
Loyalty that doesn’t flinch.
The kind of love that doesn’t leave.
And when I realized that this wasn’t just who I am
but my greatest strength
and my Achilles’ heel,
I started negotiating with time.
How do I love less?
How do I give less,
offer less,
hold back compassion,
slow down the warmth,
ration trust?
How do I stop handing pieces of myself
so willingly,
so quickly?
I tried to learn restraint.
I tried to dilute it.
But recently I understood—
it’s impossible.
This is my only language.
This is my only way.
Eloquent.
Hungry.
A fire that leaves some burned
and others aching for more.
I don’t love halfway.
I don’t arrive quietly.
I don’t have another way of loving.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 1:40 PM UTC
I keep returning to my bed,
rolling into your side on the days you’re not here,
because all I want is to find what you leave behind.
Your scent lingers—
in the sheets,
in my clothes,
on the couch,
even caught in my cats’ fur.
It reminds me that you were here,
that maybe you still are.
When I breathe it in,
the doubts loosen their grip.
The fear quiets.
It’s as if something warm wraps around me
and tells me everything will be fine.
I never thought a person could become a habit,
or that comfort could live inside something so small.
What terrifies me
is the thought that one day
this might be all that’s left—
a scent clinging to corners,
a presence I’d be forced to wash away.
Please don’t turn this into a memory
I have to erase.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 11:23 PM UTC