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It was a fine morning, when I woke up and wrote down everything I still dared to want. How I wished to see myself by year’s end. The work I would do, the home I would build, and the kind of person, I hoped would be the last I would ever love. They say prayers work best when they are specific. So I gave mine shape. I made it whole. But I guess I forgot to ask, for the courage to meet it when it arrives.

I’m sorry I couldn’t write anything tonight. I miss him.  

It was a hard year for me. I walked through harassment, and was asked to understand that it was normal, that it was nothing. I, who had always felt like I hurt others, finally built a belief so deep inside me, that I was a bad person, that I didn't matter. So, I tried again. I tried to love again. I tried to prove to myself that I was good enough. I believed my worth was tied to how much I was loved, and how well I could love in return. I became afraid of being the bad person I feared I was, and so I gave in. I nodded, I accepted. I lost my boundaries. Especially with myself. I fell into the same cycle. The need to be loved, and the fear of being abandoned. I was dependent, and at the same time, shutting myself down.

I spent my days trying to learn how to feel comfortable again. Trying to belong inside my own life, once again. Yet somehow, it felt strange to be seen. I felt guilty, and wrong, and unfair. At that time, I didn’t even know why. But looking back now, maybe there were many things underneath it. At first, I thought it was because I never truly let him go. Not even from the very beginning. But if I’m more honest, maybe it was because I let myself drown in my own sins. And so I didn’t believe I was worthy. And before I could even name it, the guilt turned into fear. I became afraid of anyone who seemed to care. I enjoyed the affection, but it couldn’t fill the hollow inside me. I grew anxious, afraid they would one day find out how terrible I was. So I didn’t step away slowly, or leave gently. I cut the cord the moment they came too close. I panicked. I froze. I trembled. And then, I ran. Hurting more hearts, and carrying the shards with me.

It felt so good, meeting him once more. He smiled and we promised, never to leave each other ever again. I cried a lot, thinking I had won him back, or maybe myself back. But somewhere along the way, my wounds had grown selfish. I no longer wanted to try. I just wanted to know: did he love me enough? more than I had ever loved him? There was a choice to heal what we carried, or to honor what we had. But I chose the road that tore everything apart. I turned us into a measure, into a give and take, a game of bets and payoffs. I loved him, only to see if he would love me more. It was when it felt like he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, that I made my vows. I promised to abandon him first. I promised to forget him. I promised, this time, to try and hate him.

After that, I tried to love again. I tried to prove to myself that I was still capable of loving, that I still had something to give. I forced myself to dig up feelings from a tank that had long run dry. But I always stopped halfway. Not too close, not too far. Just enough to feel something, never enough to let it grow. I always found a way to leave. Even when nothing was wrong. And when I was the one left behind, I didn’t even flinch. Because somewhere in my chest, the room was never cleared. It stayed his. As it had always belonged to him. So in my own quiet way, I searched for him again.

I stopped showing up for myself. I didn't really care about anything, but everything bothered me. I stopped trying, and kept asking why. I let everything pass me by, but everything stung. Everything stayed. I welcomed anyone who came close, opened the gate wide, with warm, bitter eyes. And I kept the door shut. I built the wall myself. I couldn't love again. I didn’t want to love someone else.  But I longed to be loved, to be reminded that I was still worthy. So I kept seeking it, even when I had no space to give it back. Even when I was running on empty. I could breathe a little easier, just knowing someone cared for me. That someone could still see me through the noise, through the mess. It was like, even if the world spun too fast, They still chose to offer me a little mercy.  I was hurt. And knowing that, I hurt others. I was tired. And I was tiring to love. Still, I clung to the version of me that only existed when I was with him. And the version of him...

It only got worse every time we tried again. I feel like, we built our first heartbreak through repeated hurt and unspoken expectations. We kept trying to hold onto something that had already changed. But maybe, deep down, I was trying to keep us so I wouldn't have to face myself. I didn't know that the longer it dragged on, the more it wore us thin. It was like tying a frayed rope, only to pull it tighter until it snapped, and then tying it again, and again, until there was nothing left but thread. The pain piled up, until we both gave up. Maybe even love couldn’t find its way back in. And somewhere in that loss, I lost myself even more. I began to believe I was unlovable. That I was incapable. That I wasn’t built for it. That I wasn’t enough, and would never be worthy. I hated myself for breaking. Then I hated myself more for not being able to stand up again. I hated myself for everything I tried, and I couldn’t. My chest ached, my breath shallow, my head spinning, my ...

Back then, I never really learned how to live far away from the place I called home. In fact, I barely understood my own circumstances, because I never really paused to think about them. I remember keeping myself busy. Making new friends, pursuing ambitions, crying in silence. I didn’t realize how hard it was. I was just living. Surviving. He was my one and only. And before I knew it, I became overly dependent. From loving to spend more time, to clinging so tightly that I needed him around all the time. From giving my inner world, to becoming overly sensitive to even the smallest shift. I held onto my own version of him, and refused to let it go. Until we both grew tired of each other. I kept searching for external validation, for protection, for constant adoration. And that made him feel like he no longer mattered. And it made me feel like I was no longer worthy. That was the first time, I turned my sunshine into my first nightmare.

I used to call him a big white bear. My big white bear. He was this big, chubby boy who walked around like he didn’t even care about how the teenage world worked around him. But when he laughed, he had this bright, sunshine laugh. As if he lived in a world of his own, with his friends, speaking a language only they understood. He was kind. And funny. A shy-shy boy, but brave enough to ask my parents for permission before he asked me to go out. He held his pride, but he is also the one who checked in on me, introduced me to his big, warm family, planned little birthday surprises, brought me chocolates and roses, and waited for me so we could go home together. I didn’t know much about love back then. But all I knew was, he made me the happiest.

Because for as long as I can remember, he never left me by myself. Not even once. He always made sure to treat me gently, to care for my needs, completely. He never raised his voice. Never dismissed my hand. He took me to beautiful places, and to the ordinary ones that meant just as much. He stayed by my side. And when he couldn’t, he always found his way back to me. He remembered every little thing about me, and made sure I’d always say, “I’m happy.”  He was there. He always was. And I really am happy. But it was me who couldn’t believe he was mine. It was me who couldn’t stop thinking he’d leave someday. So I kept proving myself. Kept trying, hiding, shrinking. I lost myself, trying to prove my love for him. When all I ever needed was to love him back. I brought the wounds I never truly faced, believing that being with him could make everything easier. And it was. But the untreated, unaddressed ache became a heartless resistance, one thing he never, ever deserved. And...

It’s okay. It will be alright.

I’ve spent days and nights trying to understand what others feel, what they do, why, and how. I keep holding space for them, more and more, because I thought it would hurt them more if I didn’t. I might have run out of space for myself. So I just sit with it. Or crumble with it.  I let it scream. And I honor its silence.

Then you continue living, barely.

Slowly crashing in. Flooding your chest, your skin, your thoughts.

And your heart burns slowly, as slow as the heat rising.

I don’t want to be the storm I’ve been trying to survive. But I think I’m falling apart.

I guess my body is crying in place of me.

It was red, dots on the porcelain, coming from my abdomen.

please

Because I can hardly breathe, and my head is drowning

Oh, I wish I could ask for help

Unlike the kind of wound you're trying to befriend. How do you explain a pain that chokes the air from your lungs? As strange as it sounds, this one is getting sicker.

It doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t wait for your grief to settle, or for your ache to quiet down. It doesn’t care if your breath is still heavy. It calls when you think you’re ready, and hits when you least expect it. You can’t just leave, but you’ve already lost your place. You keep remembering the things you wish had never become memories. Can pain really grow like this?

Ten years passed and infinite years lived in hope. I wonder, how does spelling it out come so easily to you?

When there’s no one around, no tasks to finish, no scripts to write, no songs to sing, or nothing left to think about. I’m still not okay when I give myself the time, even if it’s just to let the weight linger.

It’s almost sunny, nearly cloudy, but clear enough for me to see.  That I was never asking for much.  I was happy. I was grateful. I wanted to be ready.  Loving you was never meant to be an investment.  But maybe, deep down, it was a poor form of self-worth.  A way of trying to prove I was enough.

It would’ve been easier if you had just stopped loving me. Or if it had been unapologetically my fault. But the fact that  it was us, two people who still couldn’t see each other, who kept choosing different paths, no matter what lifetime we were in, somehow brings me a kind of truth,  in the most miserable way. Maybe because, at some point,  we both cared too much to keep breaking each other. At least,  we could agree on that part,  couldn’t we?

I  don’t want to let him go. I don’t want him to ever let me go.

The rest of the night stretches on,  as if finally granting its seconds, to the two people wondering, or maybe realizing,  that they couldn’t heal in the same place they got hurt.

Now what do you do when your pillar crumbled down You've lost all solid ground Both dreams and demons drowned And this void's all you've found And doubts light it aglow?

I wish I could have met you sooner, so I’d have had more time to learn how to fully see you.

Maybe it came from how scared I was to need you, because I was even more scared of losing you, The moment our eyes met, again.

An inconstant Sunday.  A humid morning, heavy rain in the afternoon, sunlight sneaking back in, and a soft drizzle by nightfall. As if the weather couldn’t make up its mind either. I looked at him. Searching for any detail I might’ve missed.  Maybe a hidden dimple, a faint scar, a freckle I overlooked.  But worse luck, I already knew everything.  I had memorized it all. All too damn freakin' well.

Because it’s starting to feel like an ending.  The way it shifted from numbness into emptiness, and how emotion has been shaped into choices.  Still, at the end of this day, I think, I can finally feel sad.

And maybe it's luck when both hearts choose each other.  

Is that why my chest feels so heavy, even when I distance myself from my own feelings?

It scares me. The thought of how real reality is. The absence is getting more vivid.  Like a surreal state where nothing remains, yet I can still see how it was supposed to be seen. How can I stop my feelings from staying the same? How do I catch up with the speed of time,  to keep up with this reel of imageless frames that feel undeniably real? How can I move through the moments I was never ready to let go of? Can I ever undo what I once knew as mine?

I already understood that sometimes, the kind of love we think is “enough” to love someone isn’t always what’s enough to love ourselves. But do you know why knowing so much makes it feel worse than ever? Because it doesn’t fill the space they left. It doesn’t hold your hand. It doesn’t say “I choose you” back. It doesn’t sit beside you when you’re feeling too much. It doesn’t undo the absence. It’s hard. Really hard. To be torn between feeling too much and nothing at all. It’s like I can see myself—while I, myself, am floating. In this heavy, foggy place where peace hasn’t arrived, but hurting feels too familiar to leave behind.

Yea, I know. I know Trump keeps sending more assault rifles to Israel. That more Palestinian lives are reduced to numbers in historical reports. I know his latest policies, just like I know the rupiah keeps falling, the ballistic missile in Russia, the 200 still missing beneath Myanmar’s rubble. I know the rise, and maybe the fall, of the art world too. I know the world keeps spinning. Like the principle of causality. The causes and effects, the chain of everything that was, is, and will be. I know the world keeps spinning. Even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, time keeps dragging us forward. And maybe, someday, what’s meant to be will find its way back. Yea, I know. The world spins on its own track. And most of the time, everything feels too fast and too slow. Too loud and too quiet. Too clear and too blurry. New projects. New heartbreaks. Same people. Same dreams. I see myself walking a never-ending path toward the crossroads of timelines, dimensions, emotions....

I  miss him. I miss him a lot. I miss him more than I miss us.

I don’t want another lifetime. I want what I once had. 

I just want us.

I don’t care about explanations anymore. I don’t want to understand. I don’t want to accept, to heal, to try, to breathe. I don’t want to do any of it. I don’t care. I don’t want to care anymore. Why does it have to end like this? Why me? Why us? Why did we have to choose ourselves? Why couldn’t I just choose you and you choose me? Why does it always have to be right or wrong? Why can’t the world just let us be us? I’m sick. Exhausted. I’m not functioning. It’s heavy—heavier by the hour. It hurts. It really hurts, until I can’t even feel the hurt. My mind won’t let me. It shuts it down. It leaves me with nothing but logic. And I’m stuck. In this cycle. Over and over again. Writing this numbly.  Feeling just  fine . 

I am not sure who called 'me' without the bruise I made my home. But I am starting to do things I once stopped doing. Choosing what I once walked away from. Liking what I once let go of, as if it was never a part of me. It all feels fine, yet broken at the very same time.

I numb myself, as if it’s the only way to shun feeling devastated. The tears only stopped as the command in my head. The talk feels like work. And this weight in my chest just keeps pressing until I feel nauseous if I let myself feel it. I don’t want to scream though. I feel like I’m drowning in words, yet I stop reading, stop writing, stop feeling. They say it’s okay not to be okay. But the thing is, how do I allow myself to be okay? Guess tonight, I’ll just exist.

There's a million reasons why I should give you up, but the heart wants what it wants. 

On a night like this, I just wish I’d held you longer, if only I knew it would be the last time for us.

It's never how do I , it's how can I. 

If we cling to different becauses , hope for different ifs , and stay with different therefores , can we still find our way to the same home ?

Because I’m starting to realize, this endless chase for meaning, this obsession with understanding, this obligation to explain, this stubborn grip on what’s already slipping—it’s not hope. It’s just my mind, shielding me from the fall. But if I stop, if I let things be, if I really stop looking, caring, wishing, trying. Then it will truly be over. And the ending won’t be fate’s doing, but mine. How am I supposed to endure that kind of loss? How could I forgive myself for losing him .

Never thought I’d be going through all of this with the same freakin’ heart, listening to the same freakin’ song, drowning in the same freakin’ memories, picturing the same freakin’ future I’ll never get to live, for the freakin’ third time.  And yet, this tiny, stubborn flicker of me just won’t die. She still won’t stop believing there might be a fourth. A fifth. Someday. Somehow. Because I think she knows that just the thought of trying, would annihilate what's left for her.

If this is the reality I'm meant to deal with, I don’t think I ever could. Probably never would. I don’t think I could bear the possibility that we could have made it.

Because the only thing I know— not even I need nor want —is as long as I’m with him.

It all makes sense to me.  Your words. Your actions. Your responses. Your habits. Your fears. Your doubts. Your understanding. Your decisions. Your choices. Your reasons. Your boundaries. Your triggers. Your anger. Your revenge. Your disappointment. Your frustration. Your distance. Your pain. Your determination. Your stubbornness. Your protectiveness. Your contradictions. Your escapes. Your returns. Your care. Your caution. Your consideration. Your gentleness. Your thoughtfulness. Your forgiveness. Your willingness. Your sacrifices. Your nearness. Your touch. Your smile. Your laugh. Your warmth. Your eyes. Your passion. Your hopes. Your sparks. Your ways. Your softness when you least realize it. Your sharpness when you’re hurt. Your voice when you’re explaining. Your silence when you’re overwhelmed. Your way of holding back. Your way of holding on. Your way of letting go. Your way of loving. Your way of breaking. Your way of trying.  Because I have, do, and always will believe...

I used to believe that the one for me would make me feel just right. That I wouldn’t need any reason, just the feeling of being enough and safe because of him. The kind of person closest to what they say: ‘if you know, you know’ Then I noticed how I stopped thinking about what I could or should do for him. How loving him became as natural as breathing. And even when it hurt, it was effortlessly bearable. Until I started to realize, the feeling of safety was no longer about how much I received. It grew deeper that it  shifted from because of to despite everything, I won't ever mind at all.  

It’s not, and it never will be, a mistake. Just as it’s not, and never will be, our fault. We broke so much. We fought so hard.  We fell so deep.  But fate was never ours to write from the beginning, was it?