Step one:
Find a river wide enough to swallow your worries whole.
Stand still. Let it try.

Step two:
Lean against the yellow-black rail, or any rail.
Stare into the distance like you’re the main character —
brooding. Very important.
Bonus points if the sky looks like it’s thinking about raining
but hasn't committed.

Step three:
Spot the lone boat drifting — slow, aimless —
like it has nowhere to be
and all the time to get there.
(Envy it quietly.)

Step four:
Think about texting someone:
"Met a river today. It's got more emotional stability than me."
Decide against it. Let the joke drift away
like the boat.

Step five:
Let the wind mess your hair.
Let the quiet mess your thoughts.
Let the river win.

Congratulations.
You've successfully crossed a bridge without actually going anywhere.

Step one:
Gather sticks.
Preferably the dry ones, the kind that snap easy.
The kind that remind you some things were always meant to break.
But let’s be honest, you’ve made worse decisions when desperate.

Step two:
Arrange them with the precision of someone who swears they “don’t have control issues.”
(It’s okay, the fire won’t judge. Much.)

Step three:
Strike the match.
Miss the first time — it’s tradition.
Miss again. Embarrass yourself a little.
Success always shows up after.

Step four:
Feed the flame gently.
Don’t smother it — not everything thrives under too much attention.
(You should know, you’ve tested the theory.)

Step five:
Sit back. Watch the fire devour the wood like it’s got an ex to impress.
Admire its commitment to letting go — you could stand to take notes.

Step six:
Let the crackle fill the silence.
There’s no need to speak.
The fire is already telling your story back to you,
one flicker at a time.

Bonus step:
Poke the fire until it sparks back at you,
because sometimes you just need proof that the world still listens
when you push it.

No one really knows
what lives beneath someone’s words.
Even when a writer speaks—
sometimes,
it’s merely to silence the endless questions.

For in the end,
life doesn’t require a constant exchange
of questions and answers.

She is a depth
that does not wish to be fathomed.
She is a secret—
ours to hold.
Let it remain just that.

Some names
are poems
we never finish writing.

I always laughed without holding back,
while you—
you’d pout,
shy and fidgeting,
whenever that story resurfaced.

That time you begged for a sip—
“Just curious”, you said,
“the name sounds unique.”
I let you try it.

You winced.
“Bitter,” you said,
“like life.”

Of course it was—
just a doppio,
barely kissed with milk.

I smiled, teasing,
“Is your life really that bitter?”

And just like that,
your eyes dropped,
your fingers found mine—
tangled,
quiet.

“Hmm... ever since you left.”

I whispered,
“I’m here now.”

And you—
you leaned in,
hid your face in the curve of my shoulder,
murmuring,
“Then don’t leave again.”

Something about that moment
lingered—
maybe it was the caffeine,
maybe it was your trembling voice,
or maybe
I just never got used to you—  
soft,
clinging,
like you thought
I might vanish
if you let go.

Maybe it’s the comfort—
or maybe it’s just you—
but honestly,
the sofa in your living room
might be the best in the world.

We were both lost
in separate corners of the same space—
you with your film
(the one I refused to watch),
me with my game
(the one you wouldn’t dare play).

I only noticed you’d moved
when I looked up—
there you were,
guitar resting in your lap
like it had always belonged there.

I paused—
the boss fight could wait—
and said,
“I’ve never heard you play before.”


You smirked,
that usual look:
infuriating, proud, perfect.
and didn’t say a word.

Just started playing—
Something soft,
familiar,
steady.

You didn’t look at me,
didn’t drop your smile,
and somehow,
without a voice,
you still mouthed the words
I wanted most to hear.

I rolled my eyes,
grabbed a cushion,
and threw it at you.

You laughed—
that real,
messy,
whole-body laugh.

And I—
I laughed too.

Because there we were.
Two fools on the best sofa in the world,
sharing a concert
no one else would ever hear.

I never claimed
to know you.
I never even wanted
to know you completely.

You see—
we are drawn to what eludes us,
born with a hunger
for the unsolved,
the unspoken.

And maybe that’s why
I kept my distance:
let the questions breathe,
left the curtain halfway drawn,
never tried
to name the storm of you.

So let this be my quiet vow:
you will always remain a mystery to me—
and that,
perhaps,
is the only way
I’ll ever keep loving you.