i think about this a lot as someone who makes things. writing, mostly, but i’m not the only kind of us out here. i think it’s worth saying plainly that being a creative in nigeria is its own flavor of suffering, no matter which version of it you are. nobody takes it seriously until it’s making money, and even then they take the money seriously, not the thing itself. you tell people you write and they ask what your real job is going to be. you tell them you’re building something whether it's a blog, a community, a voice and they smile the smile adults give children who say they want to live on the moon. there’s no infrastructure here for softness as a career and as such, everything has to justify itself in naira before anyone respects it. so you learn to create in the cracks between exams, between money you don’t have, between people who love you but don’t understand why you’re doing this instead of something ‘safer’.

and it’s not just writers. it’s the musician recording in a small studio at 7pm because that’s the only slot they could afford, watching their song get streamed thousands of times and seeing almost nothing from it, because the systems that would pay them properly weren’t built with them in mind. it’s the visual artist selling a painting for a fraction of what it’s worth because “art” still sounds like a hobby to the person buying it, and they know if they push too hard on price the sale disappears entirely. it’s the photographer who’s told to shoot a whole wedding, a whole brand campaign, a whole life event, for a price that wouldn’t cover someone else’s transport for the week, because “you’re just starting out” is apparently a permanent state of being here, not a phase you graduate out of. it’s the model whose body is scrutinized before her portfolio is ever looked at, told she’s not “the right look” by agencies that were never really built with her in mind either. (i read a piece once on a model named larry hector, backstage at lagos fashion week, saying you have to struggle so hard just to be heard, and that’s exactly why lagos always stands out — everyone there is pushing for something nobody’s seen before.) i think about that a lot cause the struggle isn’t incidental to the art here, it’s woven into it. it’s the fashion designer sewing samples by hand because a proper atelier is a foreign luxury, hoping one lagos fashion week slot will be the thing that finally gets her taken seriously. it’s the content creator who gets called “not a real job” right up until brands start paying her, and even then it’s somehow still not real enough to mention at a family gathering. every single one of us is negotiating the same impossible math — how do you put a price on something people love consuming but refuse to properly pay for? how do you convince a country to value what it enjoys?

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and it’s not even just the outside world that makes this hard, it’s home too. it’s the people who share your blood and your compound and your last name, the ones who should be your first audience, being the hardest ones to convince. you learn quickly that “writer” doesn’t sound like a plan to most nigerians, it sounds like a placeholder for a plan. someone will ask what you’re really going to do, as if the thing you’re already doing doesn’t count as doing. someone will compare you to a cousin studying medicine and mean it kindly, and it will still land like a jab. it’s kind of lonely being surrounded by people who love you and still can’t see the thing you’re building, because the thing you’re building doesn’t look like anything they were taught to recognize as success. so you end up performing two different lives, the one where you’re diligently becoming whatever practical thing will make sense at a family gathering, and the one where you’re actually alive, actually yourself, actually making something. and you learn to keep the second one mostly quiet, because it’s easier than defending it to people who didn’t ask to understand it.

and then you take that same fragile, cobbled-together thing you made in the cracks, and you try to bring it into the wider world, and the wider world looks at where it came from before it looks at what it is. adichie talks about feeling nigerian in a good way at home — proud, unbothered, whole and then landing somewhere else and being flattened into just black, with every stereotype that word is made to carry in places that didn’t build it kindly. it’s not that the outside world dislikes you specifically, it’s that it already decided who you were before you arrived. you spend so much energy just being legible as a full person proving you’re not the version of nigerian they’ve been fed by scam headlines and movies where the cringe accent is a punchline.

the sociologists have a term for it, sort of. some people call it being an ambassador, having to disprove the stereotype in every single interaction, softening your voice, adjusting your name, having on a version of yourself that’s easier to digest. it feels like survival math.

so you’re nigerian, which is a disadvantage before you’ve spoken. you’re a creative, which is a joke before you’ve made anything worth taking seriously. and underneath both of those is the fact that you’re black too, which is its own inheritance, one that comes with a whole separate set of assumptions the second you leave home. it’s strange that being black asks you to organize your whole identity around race the second you’re in certain rooms, while being nigerian asks you to organize it around something else entirely, something more specific, more local, that the rest of the world doesn’t always have the patience to learn. you end up holding two different passports to two different versions of scrutiny, and neither one fully accounts for the other. nobody abroad clocks the tribal, the regional, the specific texture of what it means to be from here. and nobody at home is thinking about how you’ll be read the second you step outside its borders. you’re left doing the translation work yourself.

i don’t have a clean way to end this, and i’m not going to force one. i love this place in the complicated way you love something that never quite makes room for you but shaped you anyway. i am embarrassed by parts of it. i am underestimated by pieces of it i didn’t choose. i don’t think we’re the placeholder version of anything. mostly, i just think nobody told us we were allowed to want this loudly, so we’re still figuring it out anyway.

For clarity, this letter carries subtle teasers or even direct spoilers, so I suggest you watch the show first if you haven’t.

siraam, ever so painfully, captured a certain dynamic with navigating the heartbreaks of hookup culture, interpreting breadcrumbs as commitment and coming to terms with the realization that loving someone doesn’t give them the capacity to love you back and sex health.

unrequited love in shows is often liking someone’s babe or liking your homegirl who has a babe and crying under the rain type of theatrics. in modern dating, it’s far more insidious. here you are, with the “love of your life” between your legs forming intimacy, building castles in your mind and for him, it’s an average thursday.

breadcrumbs, dressed up as a whole meal

as heartbreak ensues, siraam goes on a “sex-spree” to fill the void a man left behind without ever really being hers to lose in the first place, and what nobody tells you beforehand is that it doesn’t actually work the way you think it will. you don’t reach for other bodies because you want to feel good, you reach for them because you want to feel anything at all that isn’t this particular ache, and there’s a difference between the two that the film understands even when the culture around it pretends not to. siraam isn’t chasing pleasure so much as she’s outrunning a feeling that keeps catching up to her the second she’s alone again, and hookup culture will happily call that freedom if you let it, because freedom is a much easier word to say out loud than grief.

the circle nobody warns you about

while siraam is bleeding herself dry over a man who treats her like an afterthought, there’s someone right in front of her receiving the exact same treatment from her, and she’s too busy decoding his silences to notice she’s become fluent in handing out silences of her own. she’s warm when it’s convenient and gone the moment it isn’t, and she doesn’t even seem to clock the irony of it, which is somehow the most human part of the whole thing.

unrequited love, it turns out, isn’t a straight line so much as it is a circle. you spend your energy begging one person to see you while someone else spends theirs begging you the same way, and everyone involved is too heartbroken to notice they’re all standing in the exact same spot, wanting the exact same thing, from people who are too distracted wanting elsewhere to notice them back. it isn’t poetic once you actually sit with it. it’s just embarrassing, in the way most human behavior tends to be when you look at it directly instead of from a safe distance.

the quiet one, loving her anyway

and then there’s chidaalu’s brother, who has clearly loved siraam for a while now, in the particular way people love someone once they’ve quietly decided not to make it anyone’s problem but their own. he doesn’t compete for her attention or perform hurt while she’s off chasing someone who treats her worse than he ever would. he simply shows up, again and again, noticing the small things about her that you only catch if you’ve been paying attention for a long time, and he does it out of genuine care rather than the hope of being noticed back. there’s something tender in that kind of loving, the kind that doesn’t ask to be repaid in real time, that doesn’t sit around waiting for her to be done with her mess so it can swoop in and collect her like a reward for patience. he loves her while she’s still in the thick of it, uncertain and spiraling and choosing everyone but him, and he never once makes her feel small for any of it. when he finally does say something, it doesn’t arrive as a demand or an ultimatum. it comes out soft, the way something sounds when someone has been carrying it carefully for a long time and is afraid of dropping it wrong. that’s the kind of unrequited love that never curdles into bitterness. it simply waits, gently, and hopes, without needing anything back for the waiting but it’s also the most painful kind.

messy, unbothered, and still standing

the film never punishes her for any of this, either. she isn’t written as a lesson waiting to be learned. she’s just a girl trying to build a career, love a man who won’t love her back, entertain a man she doesn’t want, and still hold onto one boundary through the entire mess of it, condom and commitment or nothing, she says, even mid-sex, even when it would be easier not to. which is most of us, if we’re being honest with ourselves. nobody moves through their twenties feeling one clean emotion at a time.

it also helps that nollywood so rarely lets a woman be this messy on screen and get away with it. usually she’s sorted into a box long before the credits roll, either saint or schemer, and either way she ends up paying for something by the end. siraam doesn’t have to pay for any of it. she simply gets to have a rough season, the way most women rarely do, whether the story is happening on screen or off it.

the job doesn’t pause for heartbreak

and her job is still there through all of it, which i wasn’t expecting going in. she’s still trying to make it in an industry that has no interest in waiting for her heart to become convenient again, still showing up composed on the outside while everything else quietly burns. the film never lets her career become the thing that rescues her from the men in her life. it just allows the two to exist side by side, the ambition and the mess, the same way they do for the rest of us, because nobody actually gets to pause their job on account of a broken heart.

using her body to skip the grief

what siraam is really doing, underneath all the sex-spree of it, is avoidance dressed up as liberation. every new bed she ends up in is less about desire and more about buying herself a few hours where she doesn’t have to feel the specific shape of what she lost. it’s a coping mechanism the way overworking is a coping mechanism, the way drinking till 1am(i don't recommend) is a coping mechanism, except this one comes wrapped in a language that sounds like empowerment, so nobody, least of all siraam, clocks it as avoidance while it’s happening. the film doesn’t judge her for it, and it doesn’t glamorize it either. it just lets you watch a woman try to outrun her own grief by staying busy with other people’s bodies, and lets you notice, the way you notice these things in your own life only in hindsight, that grief has a way of waiting patiently for you to stop moving.

what the body eventually reports back

and eventually, the body always files its own report, whether you were ready to hear it or not. siraam gets a pregnancy scare that the doctor delivers with all the weight it deserves before walking it back, and even though that reversal feels a little too convenient, the fear in the room before it lands is real enough that you feel it in your own chest. later, an sti shows up as the less cinematic consequence of the sex-spree, with a dramatic doctor’s office scene so much as it just becomes another thing she has to sit with and handle. the pharmacy scenes are where the film relaxes a little, playing the awkwardness of buying protection or picking up medication for comedy instead of shame, and it earns those laughs honestly instead of using them to deflect from what’s actually happening. there’s no lecture anywhere in any of this. nobody sits siraam down to explain what she should have done differently. the film just lets her be a woman dealing with the very ordinary, very unglamorous logistics of a body that had consequences to hand back to her, and trusts that watching her handle it is instruction enough. by the end, she’s the one buying her own protection, taking charge of a part of her life she used to hand over to whichever man happened to be around, and that quiet shift, more than any speech could, is the most honest thing the film says about what taking care of yourself actually looks like

the friend who won’t let you be comfortable

and can we talk about chidaalu for a second, because if siraam is the film’s wound, chidaalu is the only steady hand pressed against it. their friendship isn’t shot like a support system so much as a relationship with its own weather, its own history of small wars fought and survived. they actually fight, the kind of fight where you can tell they’ve done this before and made it through before, which is somehow more comforting than if they never fought at all, because it means the friction was never going to be the thing that ends them and that’s what real friendship tends to look like once you’re past the first year of it. it isn’t the absence of friction but proof that the friction doesn’t have the power to end anything.

and it’s chidaalu, not a therapist, not a man, not some hard-earned epiphany siraam arrives at alone, who breaks the camel’s back by finally telling siraam the hard truth. she doesn’t say it gently either. she says it the way you say something to someone you’re tired of watching hurt themselves, half out of love and half out of exhaustion with the loving. that’s the specific texture of women loving each other in your twenties. sometimes it’s a friend looking at you mid-spiral and refusing to let the moment stay comfortable, because comfortable is exactly what got you here in the first place.

all that to say, siraam wrecked me a little, in the way only thirty-something minutes of very good writing can, and then i closed my laptop and went to go overthink a text i sent last month like none of it applied to me. which is, i think, the real review. any story that makes you diagnose your own situationship in real time while the credits are still rolling is doing something right.

go watch it, then go stare at your ceiling for a bit, you’ve earned it.

Watch Siraam Here

with lots of love(I know i’ve ghosted for a while but don’t hate me),
till next time. ;)

Did you think I’d disappeared? I only took a long pause. Too long, maybe. But the words are back, restless again. Instead of a list of reasons, let me take you into a moment I can’t stop replaying.

The platform hummed with the restless quiet of waiting bodies. A billboard flickered above the tracks, catching and losing its own light. The air smelled faintly of hot metal and rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

She sat with her knees drawn together, a small notebook balanced on her lap. The cover was worn, edges softened by time, the kind of object that seemed older than the person holding it. Her thumb pressed into the paper, not turning a page, just holding it open as if the words inside were heavier than she’d expected.

He lowered himself onto the bench beside her, not too close, but close enough that she noticed. He carried a paper cup, lid stained with a dark ring of coffee. For a while, he simply stared at the tracks, as though listening for something buried under the rails. Then, without looking at her notebook directly, he said,

“Is it numbers or words?”

Her head lifted slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been holding that thing like it might betray you,” he said, still watching the tracks. “I was trying to guess—ledger or story. I think story.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, though not into a smile. “Why would you think that?”

“Ledgers don’t get treated like secrets,” he said, finally turning to her. His eyes were sharp but not unkind. “That’s a secret-book grip.”

She shifted, closing the cover halfway with her hand. “And what if it is?”

“Then I’m curious,” he replied simply. “Because I like seeing the way people carry their obsessions. Yours looks like it’s heavy.”

Her gaze dropped back to the notebook. For a moment, she didn’t answer, the sound of shoes scraping across the platform filling the silence. Then she said, quietly, “It’s unfinished.”

“That’s the best kind,” he said.

“No,” she countered, shaking her head. “It’s the kind that keeps you up. The kind that makes you hate yourself for not finding the right words.”

The train in the distance gave a low groan, steel on steel. Neither of them moved.

He leaned back on the bench, coffee resting against his knee. “Then let it hate you back. At least it means you’re in conversation with something. Most people don’t even get that far.”

She looked at him then, studying his face as if deciding whether to take his words or throw them away. Finally, she murmured, “You talk like someone who’s lost a few arguments with their own ghosts.”

His laugh was short, caught between amusement and recognition. “That’s fair.”

The train lights appeared around the bend, spilling across the tracks like a promise that might or might not hold. She snapped her notebook shut, but the sound wasn’t final—it was more like a door closing halfway.

The train shrieked to a stop, brakes screaming. Doors sighed open, spilling light onto the platform. A few passengers hurried past them, but the two on the bench moved slower, as if neither wanted to be the first to break the spell of waiting.

She stood, slipping the notebook into her bag, the strap slung across her chest like a shield. He rose beside her, coffee in hand, and without planning it, they stepped into the same carriage.

Inside, the world narrowed. The carriage smelled of metal and dust and the faint sweetness of gum. Overhead lights buzzed with a dull hum. They found seats across from one another, not side by side—like a mirror they could both glance into without turning their heads.

She folded her arms across her chest, eyes settling on the window where the city blurred into motion. He tilted his coffee cup, watching the swirl of liquid circle like a compass trying to find north.

After a stretch of silence broken only by the rattle of wheels, he asked,

“Do you write every day?”

Her eyes flicked to him, quick, suspicious of the question.

“No.”

“Why not?”

The answer took a while. “Because I don’t like what comes out most of the time.”

“That’s not a reason to stop.”

“It is if you don’t trust yourself anymore.”

The train lurched, pressing them briefly into their seats. She steadied her bag with one hand. He steadied his cup. When the motion eased, she added, “It used to feel like breathing. Lately it feels like drowning.”

He studied her, the kind of look that wasn’t prying, just present. “So why keep the notebook with you?”

Her lips parted, then closed again. She turned to the window, voice softer now. “Because some part of me is still waiting to surface.”

The carriage rocked through a tunnel, light flickering across their faces. He let the silence hang, then said, “That’s the part I’d trust.”

She almost laughed, though the sound was brittle. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” he said, leaning back. “But neither is carrying something alive inside you and pretending it’s dead.”

The train roared out of the tunnel into open tracks. For a moment, the world outside widened—graffiti walls, glimpses of rooftops, the stretch of sky turning copper with evening.

She unfolded her arms. Her fingers tapped once against her bag, then stilled. “You talk like you’ve been here before.”

He met her gaze across the aisle. “Everyone’s been here before. Some of us just stay longer.”

The words lingered, not heavy but undeniable.

The train slowed as it approached the next station. Doors slid open, passengers shuffled in, filling the air with chatter and footsteps. But the space between the two of them remained intact, as though no one else existed.

She asked, almost against her own will, “What do you do when the words won’t come?”

He smiled faintly, as if at a private memory. “I wait. I look. I talk to strangers holding notebooks.”

Her laugh finally surfaced, quiet and startled.

The train jolted forward again, carrying them deeper into the city, into a story neither of them had expected when they first sat on that platform bench.

And when the next stop neared, she didn’t rise immediately, though the doors opened wide and the world outside invited her back. She stayed in her seat, fingers resting on the strap of her bag, as if weighing the choice. He said nothing, only lifted his coffee in a small, silent toast.

For the first time in weeks, she wanted to open the notebook.

That feels like a good place to pause. I’m grateful you’ve shared this little corner of thought with me.

With so so so so much love,

Favorr.

For a moment, I zoned out. Eyes on the road, body swaying with every jolt, I just sat there. But then, I looked at the man on the phone again. He wasn’t just shouting, he was shaking. Not visibly, not dramatically. But his knee bounced against mine in a restless rhythm. His fingers kept rubbing the fabric of his trousers like they were trying to erase something.

And just like that, it happened again, that ache. That shift. That moment when you realize the people around you aren't just background noise in your life. They are whole universes.

That’s sonder.

The sudden, quiet knowing that every stranger you pass is living a life as vivid, bruised, and blessed as yours. That they have people they pray for. That they cry in bathrooms. That someone has just died. That they’re also just trying to survive. But for me, it doesn’t stop at realizing. I feel it. All the time. Even when I don’t want to.

That’s sensitivity.

Not just being soft. Not just being emotional. It’s walking into a room and feeling the temperature of everyone’s soul. It’s hearing what isn’t said. It’s crying for people you barely know because something about their silence feels like a scream.

For years, I thought something was wrong with me. Why do I take things so personally? Why do I feel everything so deeply? Why do I sit in a crowded place and suddenly want to cry over a stranger’s slumped shoulders?

But I’ve come to believe that this sensitivity- this sacred attentiveness is just me. It’s not a weakness. It’s not too much. It’s discernment. It’s intercession.

Because what if the ache in your chest at a stranger’s sadness is the Holy Spirit nudging you to see them? To remember them? To carry a bit of their weight in prayer?

How else can you explain the ability to feel someone’s storm, without them ever saying a word?

I believe it’s God.

Or grace.

What if sonder is the awareness and sensitivity is the invitation?

The world teaches us to toughen up. To look away. To scroll past tragedy and keep moving. But maybe our souls weren’t designed for numbness. Maybe they were built for connection- quiet and unseen.

Maybe we were created to look at the man yelling in the keke and think, “God, whatever it is, help him.”

To pass the tired nurse at the pharmacy and whisper, “Strength for her, Lord.”

To sit in silence beside someone who won’t speak, and pray without words, “God, be near.”

Sonder tells us they are human. Sensitivity tells us they matter.

Together, they lead us to compassion,stillness and to prayer.

I no longer resent being this way. It hurts sometimes, yes. But it also heals.

It makes me stop before I judge.

It makes me pray before I complain.

It reminds me that we’re all walking around with invisible battles.

So I’ll keep feeling deeply. I’ll keep noticing the quiet pain in others. I’ll keep whispering prayers in crowded places.

Because maybe that’s all God asks of me sometimes- to love strangers quietly, to carry weight that isn’t mine, and to remember that no one is ever truly just background noise.

The woman selling bananas, wiping sweat from her brow, maybe her child is sick.

The boy begging at the junction,maybe he once had a home and lost it too soon.

We are all souls, crossing paths. And sometimes, for a moment, God lets us feel each other.

And that, to me, is sacred.

Sonder does not apply to MTN. NOT ONE BIT! The day I'll write on them is coming.

You can’t soft launch grief. You can’t ease into it like a new job or a subtle heartbreak. Grief doesn’t do subtle. It either explodes or it seeps. And when you try to keep it quiet, it finds other ways to show up. In shortness of breath. In the sudden urge to isolate. In the strange numbness that makes joy feel like a foreign language. It’s there when I scroll through old photos and feel nothing. It’s there when I dream of her, and in the dream, she’s alive and laughing and I wake up with tears already slipping out of my eyes.

Depression comes quietly. People think it's just sadness, but it's deeper than that. It's forgetting how to be alive. It’s losing interest in your own joy. It’s looking okay on the outside but feeling like a ghost in your own skin. It’s people saying “you’re so strong” and not knowing that strength, in this case, just means you’ve gotten really good at hiding the cracks. It’s sleeping too much or not at all. It’s the guilt of not grieving right. Of not showing up when it mattered. Of avoiding the pain so hard that it starts to rot somewhere deep inside.

I think one of the quietest kinds of grief is grieving the version of yourself that no longer exists. The one who used to light up rooms without even trying, who believed in possibilities, who laughed without the weight of everything she now carries. I miss her. The girl who used to dream loudly, who showed up to life with an open heart, who didn’t flinch every time something slipped away. Somewhere along the way, I lost that spark. Maybe it was the failures, the disappointments, the way life kept taking without asking. And now I move through the world a little dimmer, a little heavier, pretending I don’t notice how much of me has gone missing. But I do. I feel it every day. And I don't know how to get her back, or if I even can.

My emotions became too scattered, too loud in ways I never meant them to be. I withdrew when I should have reached out. I stayed silent when I should’ve said, “I’m hurting.” I let my moodiness speak louder than my love, and by the time I tried to explain, the damage had already been done. I don’t blame them for leaving. Some people simply weren’t built to translate what I couldn’t articulate. But I still grieve those losses too.

We like to believe grief follows rules. That it fades with time. That healing is a destination you reach if you just keep walking. But I’m learning that grief isn’t something you move past, it’s something you learn to carry. Some days, it feels lighter. Other days, it presses against your chest like it just happened yesterday. And sometimes, when you least expect it, it asks to be felt again.

Sometimes I catch myself praying for the ones who didn’t make it. Not in the usual way, not with polished words or perfect faith, but with the quiet hope that God sees the heaviness they carried. That He understands. I know what the world says about suicide, about how it’s a sin, about how souls like that are damned. But I can’t believe that. I won’t. Because I’ve seen what despair can do. I’ve felt the weight that makes even breathing feel like labor. And if I, flawed and fragile as I am, can feel compassion for that kind of pain, then surely a loving God can too. I hope He doesn’t turn them away. I hope He sees the suffering behind their decision, the fight they fought for as long as they could. I hope he sees the tears that ran down their eyes as they jumped, the shaky hands they pulled the rope with, the brave faces they had on as they buried their families, I hope He wraps them in mercy. Because if anyone ever needed grace, it’s those who died trying to escape the war inside their own minds.

Lately, healing has looked less like grand breakthroughs and more like small, quiet decisions. Getting out of bed even when I don’t feel like there’s a reason to. Replying to one message instead of ignoring all of them. Opening the curtains. Taking a walk even if I come back feeling the same. It’s not linear, and it’s not always encouraging. Some days I still feel hollow. But there are moments- brief, flickering moments where I remember what lightness felt like. I’m learning that healing isn’t a return to who I used to be, but a slow becoming of someone new. Someone softer, perhaps. Someone who doesn’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. Someone who allows the grief to take up space without letting it consume everything. And maybe that’s the work right now-not fixing it, not rushing it, but simply staying. Showing up for myself in the smallest ways. Letting that count. Letting that be enough.

Maybe writing this is my way of finally showing up. If this reads like a confession, it probably is. Grief has no structure, and neither does this piece. It's not a clean wound. It’s a long, unfinished story with pages torn out and chapters I never got to live. It's the ache of an unspoken goodbye. It's the silence of the funeral I didn’t attend. It's the friendships I lost while trying to hold myself together. It's the person I used to be, before I learned how quickly life can strip you down to your bones.

I'm still here. Still grieving. Still piecing myself back together.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

I hope you're happy up there, O.🕊️

Hi, my love.

It’s raining right now and the sound of it on my window feels like a confession I’m too much of a coward to make. I should be asleep, but my thoughts won’t stop circling the same truth I’ve carried for far too long. A truth that’s heavy in my chest today, heavier than usual.

I’ve loved you for a year. Twelve long, aching months of silent wars and small, secret hopes. You’ve seen every part of me, every tear, every slip of sadness I swore I’d hide better next time, every broken moment I tried to mask with a joke. You’ve seen me raw and real, in all my messy vulnerability, and I let you, because some part of me believed that maybe, just maybe, you’d look at me and finally see more than just a friend.

How unfair is it that the heart wants what it cannot have, and keeps wanting anyway?

You are the ache beneath my ribs. The breath I hold when you brush my arm. The reason I replay conversations in my head, wondering if I gave too much away.

But you never saw it, did you? You never saw how I looked at you like you were the sun cracking through my storm. How just being near you made my world feel less cruel.

You only ever saw me as safe. As the girl who would always be there.

As just a friend.

But I wasn’t safe. I was burning. I am burning. Every damn day, I hold my heart back like it’s some rabid thing- untamed and wild and desperately stupid. And maybe it is. I didn’t mean to imagine a thousand versions of us; ones you’ll never see, because I’m not the girl you dream of.

You took pictures of me laughing, of me trying to cover my face, of me squinting at the sun and pretending not to love every second of being seen by you. I still have those pictures. To you, they're casual. For me? It was hope. It was everything and that was the cruelest thing.

I can’t count how many nights we stayed up talking. How many stupid inside jokes we created. How often you made me laugh so hard I forgot what sadness felt like for a few minutes. You always knew how to light me up and I let you, even when I was running on empty. Even when my heart was breaking quietly beside yours.

I replay our hugs in my mind sometimes.

Do you, my love?

You carried peace like it was stitched into your soul, and when I was near you, I felt like I was standing at the edge of something sacred. I watched you love people without conditions, forgive without hesitation, and offer kindness like it was infinite. Loving you, even from a distance, felt like a prayer answered in a language I didn’t yet understand. And maybe that’s why it hurts so much, because you were my glimpse of something safe, and yet you were never mine to keep.

You never knew, but you became my sanctuary in a season when I didn’t even recognize myself. You reminded me that there was still good in the world. Still softness. Still something worth believing in.

But I loved you silently. I held it all in. The moments I wanted to reach for your hand, the nights I almost told you how just being near you made me feel whole. I swallowed every word because I knew you didn’t look at me that way. And still, I stayed. Not out of hope. But because even the shadow of you felt better than a world without you.

Letting go of you has been a slow unraveling. Like peeling off layers of myself I built around you. And God, it hurts. But in this hurt, I’ve found something sacred. A quieter kind of love. One that doesn't demand, or plead, or wait. One that simply wishes you well from afar. You’ll never know the way you changed me. You’ll never know the nights I wrote your name into prayers I barely had the strength to finish. But I think that’s okay. Some loves aren’t meant to be declared. Some are meant to be lived, to be felt, and then gently released, like a breath into the cold night air. Some people walk into our lives like answered prayers, and we mistake their arrival for permanence. I did that with you. I thought God sent you to stay.

And so, my love,

You were deeply, selflessly and silently loved. And though it shattered me, I wouldn’t undo a second of it. So I’m placing it down gently. Not with anger. Not with bitterness. But with all the love I never got to give you out loud.

Even if you'll never know,

Me.

It conjured images of electric touches, grand gestures, and love stories that ended in rings or forever promises. Society told us soulmates were found in lovers — someone who made your heart race, who completed you in that cinematic way.

But love, as it turns out, is far more expansive than that.

There exists a quieter kind of soulmate.

Not born of passion or lust, but of presence.

Not marked by romantic milestones, but by the steady thrum of friendship that never asks to be earned.

These are the platonic soulmates — the ones who never needed a vow to stay.

They’re the ones who show up long before love becomes complicated. The ones who learn your laugh by heart, who know the rhythm of your silence and exactly when to interrupt it. They sit beside you on your ugliest days and never flinch at the ugliness. They don't rescue you, they just don't leave.

Platonic soulmates are built — moment by moment — in the in-betweens of life.

Built in chaotic group chats, in long walks, in late-night voice notes about nothing and yet everything. In the comfort of shared secrets, ugly crying, and finishing each other’s sentences without thinking.

They are forged through joy, grief, distance, and growth.

Through the seasons when everything changes, and yet somehow, this bond remains untouched.

It’s easy to overlook the people in our lives who play this role and to underestimate the depth of their role.

There’s no anniversary, no meet-cute, no “how did you two meet?” story that makes strangers swoon. But their love? It runs deep. Deeper than romance sometimes ever dares to go.

Because platonic soulmates don’t love you for who they want you to be or who they expect you to be.

They love you exactly as you are — flawed, healing, evolving.

They see your cracks and fill them with laughter, safety, and truth. They hear your silence louder than the world does. They know when your laughter is not genuine. They're the first people that come to mind when things go south and when things go your way.

They love you with full hands and open hearts, and they do it without asking for anything in return.

And in a world that glorifies romantic connection as the pinnacle of self-fulfillment, our platonic soulmate reminds us of something far more radical. That the most powerful kind of intimacy isn’t always romantic.

Sometimes, it’s two friends sitting in silence, knowing everything and yet saying nothing.

Sometimes, it’s someone who knows the worst parts of your story and chooses to stay anyway.

Because when everything else fades — when the lovers leave, when the world gets too loud, when even your reflection feels unfamiliar, they are still there with open arms, with unspoken understanding, with a kind of grace that doesn’t demand performance.

Platonic soulmates are the people who love you when you forget how to love yourself.

The ones who carry your name in rooms you're not in. The ones who remember your little things; your favorite song, your quietest fear, the way you overthink even when you pretend not to. They hold space for your softness, your loudness, your growing edges. They don’t just walk with you through life’s chapters, they help you write them.

I believe everyone deserves someone who will show up anyway. When you don’t have the right words, or any words at all. When the world doesn't feel kind, and your confidence feels borrowed. When your heart is too heavy to carry alone. They will show up with no conditions. No questions. No need to perform.

That kind of love doesn't need romance to feel real.

It’s love that lives in the quiet and serves as everyday proof that you don’t have to be doing everything right to be deeply, genuinely loved.

She was 13 when she had her first kiss. No, it wasn't magical or under the rain or had fireworks in the backdrop. It was mundane. It was dumb. She hadn't expected it, he just kissed her. No, he didn't ask her, like in the movies, if he could do it, he just did. He made her swear not to tell anyone they had kissed. What did 13 year old her, who was just kissed by a senior she liked, do? She didn't tell anyone. She went home, skips in her steps, and daydreamed about that kiss. The very next day, she sought for an excuse to see him again and she did. He sat her down and told her he wanted her. Her very undeveloped 13 year old body. He told her she was beautiful while his hand crept into her bosom. “You don't think they're too small?” He remained quiet. “Am I annoying to you?” She asked this time at the verge of leaving. He whispered sweet nothings and the words “I love you.” 13 year old her believed she found love and let it play on.

There was a time I didn’t know who I was anymore. Not because I had changed, but because I had let too many people decide who I was supposed to be. The reliable one. The strong one. The one who always holds it together. The one who doesn’t complain, who smiles even when it hurts, who makes space for everyone else—no matter how little is left for herself.

I wore those expectations like outfits I never chose. I kept showing up as the version of me that was easiest to love. And at first, it felt good. Being needed, being praised, being accepted. But over time, something started to feel hollow. Like I was performing a role in a life that wasn’t really mine. Like I was looking for what's on the other side through an opaque telescope.

I got so used to adjusting. So used to quieting my thoughts, softening my tone, hiding my feelings. I didn’t even notice I was slowly disappearing. Day by day, I lost pieces of myself—not all at once, but in small, quiet ways. A “sure, I’m fine” here. A fake smile there. And every time I denied what I felt or needed, I let someone else’s version of me take up space where the real me used to be.

And people loved her. That version. The agreeable one. The one who didn’t ask for much. The one who could be everything for everyone. They said I was “so strong.” I won't lie. I loved being “strong.” I wasn't one of the girls who cried when teased. I didn't complain when everyone left the group projects for me to handle. But strength without truth? That’s just survival. And I was exhausted.

Till it all came down and birthed my million and one insecurities. The girl who's always teased finally broke. For some reason, it seemed to excite them. Like, they could see through my façade of strength. Like, they knew the wall I had up was just glass and they'd been cracking at it. But why did that excite them? Didn't they like how strong I was? Didn't they like how I laughed at their jokes and never obviously shrunk whenever I was the butt of the jokes? How I always kept quiet whenever I got a “you talk too much.”

Welp, guess it never really was about me.

How often do we let people define us for us?

No, this isn't an excuse to be a mean person and go about thinking you're all that.

It doesn't start in one day. A little, “you're too fat.” “you're too loud.” “you're too thin.” “you’re too sensitive.” begins to pile up in your subconscious. Now, you look at yourself in the mirror different. Your subconscious and echoes of someone else's words paints a picture of you to you that wasn't there the previous day. Then, the old you begins to shrink.

I'm still not healed. I'm still quiet at functions, I still look at myself funny but it's not as bad as it used to be. I started paying attention to myself and yes, I was called selfish. What made me me? What made me happy? Why on earth am I surrounding myself with people who fake their smiles around me?

You deserve to live a life that's yours. Not a mirror with different reflections of people’s expectations. A life where your smile is genuine and you're truly truly loved.

For Emma.

We’re not dating anymore—we’re navigating a social experiment with no rules and no accountability.

We didn’t fall in love. We fell into habits and pretended that was enough.

Situationships: Emotion Without Intention

A situationship is the ultimate non-commitment. It’s not a friendship, not a relationship, but something in between—undefined and unresolved.

It starts casually. A few texts. Some flirting. A hook-up.

Then, one day, you realize you’ve shared secrets, inside jokes, and playlists—but not clarity.

You don’t ask where it’s going because you don’t want to “ruin it.”

They don’t bring it up either, because they know they don’t want more.

And so, you stay in a confusing loop of “Are we or aren’t we?” while pretending you’re okay with not knowing.

Situationships are just commitment issues dressed in comfort and convenience.

Ghosting: The Exit Strategy With No Explanation

When the communication suddenly stops, and the person you were “talking to” disappears without a word—that’s ghosting.

It doesn’t matter if it lasted two weeks or two months—the silence hits the same. You go from constant texting to being left on read. From making weekend plans to staring at your phone, wondering what you did wrong.

The worst part? You’ll probably never get an answer.

Ghosting is not a lack of time—it’s a lack of courage.

Ghosting has become so normalized that people joke about it, shrug it off, or even justify it. But the reality is: it’s emotionally immature. It's disrespectful. And it leaves people questioning their worth for something that was never even about them.

Stuck in the Talking Stage

A DM. A few late-night conversations. A shared reel.

You don’t even notice it happening—how quickly you start to look forward to their name lighting up your phone.

You tell yourself it’s casual. You’re “just talking.” But suddenly, you're thinking about what to wear when you might see them. You replay their voice notes. You start attaching meaning to little things—how they remember your favorite snack, how they text back fast, how they say goodnight, how they waved at you.

You let your guard down. Just a little.

And then, just when it starts to feel real, they pull back. They get "busy."

The replies get shorter. The tone shifts.

And when you finally ask what’s going on, the answer is always the same:

“We were just talking.”

It’s a line that erases everything.

Because in the talking stage, you’re allowed to feel—but they’re not expected to stay.

It’s Not You. It’s the Culture.

You’re not crazy for catching feelings. You’re not weak for wanting answers. You’re not clingy for expecting basic communication.

We live in a culture that glorifies detachment and mocks emotional honesty. We call people “too intense” when they want clarity, and “too soft” when they express hurt.

Why are we in these almost-relationships, giving our time, attention, and vulnerability to people who never intend to commit?

Because we’ve been conditioned to believe that asking for more makes us demanding.

Because we’re scared to be alone.

Because “chill” is the new currency of desirability.

The irony is, we want closeness—but we don’t want to look like we care. We want love—but only if we don’t have to say it first. So we stay in limbo, hoping silence will evolve into connection.

It rarely does.

Modern dating is not about finding love. It’s about managing disappointment without looking desperate.

While this generation may have invented a thousand ways to avoid love, I still crave the real thing and pretending otherwise isn’t fooling anyone.

Not just dating. Not just relationships.

Men.

What they said.

What they didn’t say.

How to make them want you.

How to get over the ones who didn’t.

How to become the version of yourself they’ll regret losing.

Going to the gym because of him.

Doing squats because of him.

And suddenly, you realize… we’re not just healing from men. We’re building our entire identities around them.

That’s not empowerment. That’s quiet, well-disguised emotional dependency.

And it’s bleeding us dry.

We don’t talk enough about how deeply conditioned women are to crave male attention.

Not because we’re shallow and not because we’re weak.

But because, for so long, it’s been the currency of our worth.

From childhood, we’re taught—directly or indirectly—that our likability, our desirability, our softness, and our success are all validated by how men respond to us.

Being chosen by a man is still treated as a finish line. Some sort of prize. A reason to live.

Being single for too long? Suspicious.

Not wanting a relationship? Cold, bitter, “too much.”

Wanting one too badly? Desperate, embarrassing.

So we end up in this lose-lose loop of trying to not care while secretly caring too much. And now, we’re doing it in real time, on public timelines, with trending audio, Tiktok challenges and curated heartbreak aesthetics.

It’s wild how even the most empowering messages are still rooted in male validation:

“I’m becoming that girl—so he’ll see what he lost.”

“I’m focusing on me now—but if he comes back, maybe…”

“Watch how I glow up after he ghosted me.”

It’s exhausting and frankly, it's stupid.

Because it means our healing isn’t for us.

It’s a performance. A silent, desperate hope that someone is watching—and regretting.

We talk about “moving on,” but so much of it is just us pretending we’re okay so he feels like the fool.

It’s revenge dressed up as confidence and it’s not sustainable.

Who Am I Without Him?

This is the scariest and most important question a woman can ask herself in this generation:

Who am I when I’m not being seen, wanted, or pursued by a man?

What do I like?

What do I want to talk about?

What do I care about beyond being beautiful, wanted, chosen, or admired?

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So many women don’t know the answer.

Because no one ever taught us how to build an identity outside of male perception.

We were taught how to be desirable, not whole.

How to be interesting enough for a date—but not how to live an entire life that’s meaningful, even when no one’s watching.

And that lack of self? That’s the real heartbreak.

Not the guy who didn’t text back. Not the almost-relationship. Not the ghosting. The real grief comes from realizing you’ve spent so long being consumed by men that you’ve never really known yourself.

We’ve changed how we speak, dress, think, and even post online just to seem more appealing.

We’ve dimmed our opinions, softened our boundaries, and romanticized crumbs of attention—all to be chosen.

And when we’re not? We spiral.

We Deserve to Be Self-Centered

Yes, self-centered.

Not selfish. Not arrogant. Not cold. Just… centered in ourselves.

Thinking about our dreams, not just our desirability.

Focusing on how we feel, not how we’re perceived.

Caring about what makes us come alive—not what makes us more dateable.

Because being women should not mean being exhausted.

We shouldn’t have to constantly edit ourselves for the male gaze, the male ego, or the hope of male attention.

We are allowed to be the main characters in our own lives. Not just the pretty side plots in someone else’s story.

This isn’t about hating men. It’s about waking up.

Waking up to the fact that we’ve been fed a lie—over and over again—that our value starts the moment someone wants us.

And maybe that’s why so many women are tired. We’ve spent our whole lives trying to be wanted. But rarely have we stopped to ask if we want ourselves. You’re not too much.

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I accidentally bumped into a lady today (clumsy me, I know). We were both rushing—maybe to catch a bus, beat traffic, or just trying to keep up with life. It was one of those light shoulder brushes that happen in crowded places. She didn’t fall or stumble. Just a quick pass, a blink-and-miss moment.

And I didn’t say sorry.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because it didn’t click immediately. My brain was wrapped around being late, checking the time, trying to meet up with my curfew. But when it finally hit me—a few steps later—I stopped. I turned around, scanning for her in the crowd. She was already gone, walking on like nothing happened.

But it bothered me that she didn't react to it.

Not the bump. Not even my late apology. What really stuck with me was… she didn’t say anything. No pause, no glance, no “excuse me” or the classic “Are you blind?.” It was like she expected nothing from me.

And that, for some reason, felt heavier than the moment itself.

Why didn’t she ask for an apology?

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That question sat with me for hours. Maybe she was tired. Maybe this wasn’t her first bump of the day. Maybe she was used to being overlooked, dismissed, unheard. Or maybe she just didn’t want to make a scene—because the world doesn’t always give people the space to ask for kindness.

It made me think about how often we let little things pass—not because they don’t matter, but because we’ve been trained to believe our feelings are too much, too sensitive, too inconvenient for the fast-paced world around us.

Every person you walk past is living a life just as layered and complicated as yours. That woman might’ve just gotten off a hard phone call. Maybe she was on her way to visit someone in the hospital. Maybe she was fighting to hold herself together.

We never really know. But we should always assume.

What if I'm going about this the wrong way? What if she assumed I had the rough day? "Her hitting me was probably an accident. She's probably rushing home to an emergency." Because in that version of the story, she offered me something I hadn’t even thought to offer her: the benefit of the doubt. And if she could give me that grace, a stranger with a backpack and a late appointment, maybe I can learn to give that grace to others too.

That’s the heart of empathy—recognizing that what’s invisible isn’t unimportant. That people don’t need to be crying or broken down for us to be gentle. They just need to be human. And that should be enough.

We often talk about “reading the room” in terms of big social settings. But what if we tried to read the room in everyday encounters too? A tired cashier. A quiet friend. A distracted coworker. A stranger on the street. What if we paused long enough to consider their energy before reacting with our own?

Empathy doesn’t always come with overboard chivalry or long speeches. Sometimes it’s eye contact. Sometimes it’s a soft tone. Sometimes it's a hug. Sometimes it’s a simple “sorry” after a bump.

And sometimes, it's turning around—even when the person is already gone.

We live in a world that urges us to keep moving—to be efficient, to be strong, to be unbothered and sometimes to be who we aren't. But in all that forward momentum, something vital gets lost: our attention to each other.

We forget that every interaction, no matter how fleeting and minute, holds the potential to affirm someone's dignity or to diminish it.

That bump I gave her? She likely let it go within moments. But I carried it with me—because it reminded me how instinctively we prioritize our urgency over someone else's humanity. How easily we let compassion become an afterthought.

What would it look like if we were more attuned to one another? If we made a habit of emotional presence, not just physical proximity? If we remembered that kindness isn’t weakness, but awareness?

There is quiet power in reading the room. In noticing the tension behind someone’s eyes. In recognizing that every person you meet is the protagonist of a story you haven’t read and you may never read.

And maybe that’s the sacred work of being human—learning how to hold space for each other, even in the smallest moments.

Girlhood is no longer what it used to be. Once shaped by families, neighborhoods, boy talks and hand-me-down wisdom, it now unfolds under the soft glow of screens and the silent influence of algorithms and social media challenges. Artificial intelligence isn’t just in the background—it’s helping raise a generation.

From the moment a girl logs onto TikTok or Instagram, she’s being watched, measured, and fed content that slowly shapes her. The algorithm learns her faster than her friends do. She doesn't need to repeat herself to the “algo”, it simply gets her. It tells her what’s beautiful, what’s funny, what’s worth sharing. It doesn’t care about her well-being—it cares about engagement. So she scrolls, and the algorithm shows her more: skincare routines, aesthetic edits, dangerous diets dressed up as lifestyle hacks, soft filters, boy bands and soft-core perfection. Every swipe adds a layer to her idea of who she should be or who she could possibly be if she follows the 6:30 ASMR vidéo she just watched.

AI is also altering how girls present themselves to the world. Filters smooth skin, shrink noses, lighten eyes. It's easy, even fun—but the line between play and self-image blurs fast. Some girls don’t want to post a photo without editing it. Some don’t want to be seen at all. When your digital self is cleaner, cooler, prettier—how do you live in your real one?

Even friendship is changing. Some girls now talk to AI companions for advice, comfort, company and yes, crash out sessions. It’s safe, controllable, always available. But it’s also different. These relationships aren’t reciprocal; they’re simulations. Yet for some, they feel more reliable than people.

AI is not just a tool anymore—it’s part of growing up. It shapes dreams, anxieties, identities. It makes girlhood more connected, more expressive, but also more curated and more vulnerable. The machine is always listening. And sometimes, it’s the loudest voice in the room.

“I've stopped writing think pieces. Crazy, I know. Truth is, I've never been so occupied with nothingness. Whenever anyone asks, “What happened to your reviews?” I pull out the “I've been busy” card. Now, one nosy person pried further, and I pulled out the “school takes my time these days” card. I've lived a consistent lie for three months. I have been busy with nothing. You know that camera effect that makes whatever comes into focus appear blurry and in movement, meanwhile it's actually static? That's been my life.

I have a love-hate relationship with God now. Hate is a strong word, I know. He gets it. I know it's not going to affect him. Actually, whenever I remember how much I hate Him now, I genuinely laugh at myself. It's like standing in front a brick wall and ignoring it. No matter what, it'll still be a brick wall and it'll always be there, unless I leave. I haven't left yet. I think what I have with God is the one thing I can't completely walk out on. It's where the love comes in. This silence we have going on now, no matter how crazy it's driving me, it's always filled with how much He's come through for me. So, I'll wait a little more- after all, he is the author of patience.

I have social anxiety now(self diagnosed). I think it's always been there but I never really went out, so no socialization was even necessary. In a room full of people, I've never felt so self-aware. Background voices, gossip, pleasantries all come into picture, none of them including me. Did these cliques just begin? It all started with a hi, right? All I need to do is stand up and say hi and then what? Awkward silence. I just need to join the dance train during service. Find a partner, smile and dance. Terrible idea. For the first time ever, I actually run out to cry.

*Cues in DtMF by Bad Bunny* I have a tiny confession. Mid maladaptive daydreaming, I sometimes thought what grief would do to me.(I promise I’m okay). Guess I found out the hard way. I always imagined if I heard someone I loved died, it'll take me business days to break(tough girl mentality). When dad broke the news, it didn't take seconds for the tears to come out. It's like my subconscious knew what he wanted to say but I needed to be sure. I've never felt grief, so it was odd that I could be walking and I’d feel the tears before I realised I was crying. Scary feeling, honestly. *Aunty O, you're loved. Mom misses you and sometimes she'd cry and quickly wipe her tears away when she hears anyone coming. I hope you're happy. Sickness is a bitch.*

I have a semicolon on my Insta bio now. I don't think I’m quite ready for that topic yet. It's there because I can't get the tattoo. *sobs in strict parents and fear of skin cancer.* I've definitely earned the semi-colon.”

“Is this how you've truly been?”

“Once again, I focused on negativity. My bad.

I love long walks now. I love walking by and seeing my neighbour's dog wag her tail when I come into view. I love spaghetti now. I’m more into white girl music now more than ever. K-pop really isn't that bad. Tate McRae is so cool

But these are just abstracts.

I've found beauty in smallness and the way I’m wired, it stops being small when I pay attention.I love seeing people smile, regardless if I’m the reason or not. I feel happy knowing someone is happy. I once had a stranger tell me I had a nice smile(I was laughing hard at my phone). Plot twist, I’d cried my worst the night before and only left the house to avoid harming thoughts. I thought about that compliment for days. Having strangers offer to pay for my rides and food and walk off without even asking my name has been the most aweing. Good people do exist.

Being alone isn't that bad. In a crowded room, right before tuning people out, I learn more about humans. Now, how would I have known that a certain first year Engineering boy is trying to impress this one girl in Computer Science and his friends are calling him a simp for trying, if i wasn't alone? Sometimes, I find peace in my solitude.

Rejection isn't the worst thing ever. (I might be lying). Maybe in the next three months, I'll actually mean this. This is just something my mom said to me as she watched me cry for being rejected the third, fourth or is it fifth time?(I've lost count.) Maybe one day, I'll make peace with myself and the universe can catch me a break.

My small circle are some of the best people to ever exist. *Confession; my friends threatened to end me if I don't start the writing again. I accidentally blurred our that I’d quit writing and they had none of my excuses.* But, here I am, happy that I've found my word again. Now, while I’m not one for sentiments,this piece is for the two girls that threatened to end me just because they missed my writing.

It's okay to let people in. If anyone had told me, I'd cry my heart out to someone, I’d had laughed in their face. Now, the boy I met in church let me cry to him for days, told me(lied to make me feel better) that everything was okay and told me he'd stay up all night on a call if I wanted(he went to bed early), noticed me run out to cry when my anxiety got bad, and still asked me what's wrong, like I didn't say the most unhinged thing to him the night before. The girl I met at a shoot, promised me she'd make me laugh and stay by me and make me realize life is worth living. She's kept her promise ever since.

I still love hugs and hand holding.(I think this generation has made the intimacy of that blasé and I’m the last sane one left). I'm working on my anxiety. I haven't cried in 24 hours.(This has to be my biggest achievement in the past three weeks). I still love romcoms and I’ll try to start my think pieces again.”

I watched younger me fade away into the now risen sun and I felt tears once again. Not of pain this time but of expectancy and happiness. I’ve faced my biggest fear -myself. These following months might just be it.

The first time I truly got anxious, I cried. I was waiting for the results of an exam that will determine the rest of my life. I wish I was exaggerating when I say it will determine the rest of my life. This happened in January and I barely had any friends. I wasn't a loner girl or anything, I just didn't know how to love people. I always thought anxiety and panic attacks were exaggerated but I realized they're barely portrayed as they truly are. It was dark, and cold and hot and my heart became so heavy, all I had to do was cry. I wished I could hold my heart in my hand and tell it that everything will be okay, even if it meant lying. 2023, I failed over and over and over again and the thought of failing yet again in 2024 was unbearable. I cried myself to sleep. That was the first time I survived.

I have avoidant attachment and while it's commonly for people who can't commit to relationships, it's also for people who can't commit to friendships. Started the year with barely any friends and what made things worse was how people assumed I had many friends, many people who'd always “have my back”. I always thought of myself as being too needy. I mean, why would I call someone by 12am and tell them that I'm literally dying and I don't know why? I didn't ask to end the year with the best people in the world. People who'd send me TikToks of Bridgerton edits(I'm OBSESSED with Bridgerton), novels they know I'd love, invite me to book fairs, cry on the phone with me, listen to my 8 minute voicenotes of how I made eye contact with the boy I liked, who understood that my words often come out as harsh and stay regardless, who's call me out on my excesses and tell me the hard truth I needed to hear, who's run all the way to my church for my birthday. If anything, I am GRATEFUL for the people in my life today. I overcame my avoidant attachment and allowed myself to love people. That was the second time I survived.

I forgave this year and while that was the hardest thing I had to this year, I'm happy. I gave so much of my heart last year until I ran out, held on to hurt and hated people. Started the year a melancholic and ending the year a happier melancholic- I haven't quite gotten the hang of my crashouts. I'm not recoiling into my shell at the first light of love, my heart's not heavy, I'm neither half empty nor half full, I'm happy. I truly love and for the first time in two years, my countenance is actually in sync with my heart. That was the third time I survived.

I liked a boy this year. It was hard, it was good, it was painful, it was dramatic and I have letters in my notepad. While I'm no Lara Jean, it was my therapy before I came clean to my friends. I wrote to him, in my notepad, on many nights and days it rained and days we made eye contact and our brushed hands.

If I were to tell the truth, it will be along the lines of, you were supposed to be my friend and nothing more. You were never supposed to become my favorite person. Your messages were never meant to make me feel like the main character in a 90's romcom. I was never supposed to know when you're near by your cologne. I was never supposed to walk into a room and immediately look for you. I was a melancholic and you are a bundle of joy, two worlds that were never meant to collide. If you asked me of the world, I'd go through it's ends and give it to you. You were supposed to be a lousy Instagram request, a person I'd soon forget never someone I'd etch his name in my heart. 

A, if you ever read this, your flaws are your best features because I could always count on the fact that I can always embarrass myself and you'd forget the next day and I can be that cool girl again. 

I hope notepads never have the ability to speak. Mine would ask me, “why not just tell him?” Once again, I'm definitely no Lara Jean but letters that will never get out, admiring from afar and a yearn that will nearly drive you to madness is more me. That was the fourth time I survived.

Grateful for thousands but more importantly I'm grateful for He who forgave me countless times. I'm a sinner and He's my savior. What a blessing it is to be alive on December 31,2024 and all because He never used my excesses and shortcomings as a yardstick to judge me. Thank you, Yawheh.

Lest I forget, I'd deleted four drafts two months ago and almost quit. For some reason, I found my words again or maybe they found me. I'll never forget the girl who'd read my work and texted me. You made me the happiest that day. Thank you, K.

2025, be nice.♥️

Now, what's unrequited romance without haters? "He's too old for you", "stop staying in enclosed places with a man", "you're fooling yourself". I wasn't looking for a relationship, he was just my confident and my favorite person. Nothing more. So, why's he talking about him giving me his all and me giving nothing?

"Calm down." I frantically looked for the backdoor.

"I won't hurt you. It's just sex.

does "just" justify the fact that he wants it and I'm uncomfortable with it? does it justify the way his fingers are tracing my skin? he's saying things but I'm not hearing. his breathing has changed; it's fast and doesn't have hitches. he's excited and of course, there were no signs for what happened today.

I've always been one to talk; how else could I have called my best friend nosy for saying I was getting too close to a man twice my age? So, where's my voice when I needed it the most? I wasn't screaming, I knew that because I felt the tears kiss my lips before they dropped. He kissed my neck. I had told him I loved it when my boyfriend did that to me. I hated this.

I felt the NO build up and also felt it go back down when he told me he loved me. His hands began to wander and I ffinally found my NO. He didn't take it. Kneeing him was all I could do to buy me a few seconds. What's a few seconds head start when your PE teacher's the one you're rrunning from? I had no tears left to cry. I stood there and watched him take what was meant for another.

It's 4am and I'm in tears for the girls who it wasn't a fictional story for.

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It's a cold Sunday evening and I'm spiraling. Uncontrollable flashbacks and tears being fought back is the order of the day. Memories I've fought time and time again to suppress, finally coming up. Damn, you headache. What memories did I “shut down”? Memories where I was constantly, and constantly and dare I say again constantly, reminded that I wasn't enough.

I'm the first daughter, the ada, the one who's supposed to have ALL the answers and while some think it's a privilege, I beg to differ. It gets worse.

Growing up, I felt smart. All As, accolades, gifts for being “smart”, the awe and envy(sometimes hatred) of people. I felt good; it felt good. Then, it all went down the drain.

As the ada, I couldn't afford to be less than perfect. It was almost an abomination. I couldn't help it though. As I grew, I became less “smart” and less of a responsible first daughter. I had constant fights with my mother who expected the world from me, I began hating school, I did things I wish I could take back, people didn't appreciate me anymore(not that it mattered). I felt empty and the emptiness grew. Lest I forget, I drew farther way from God. Rookie mistake, i know.

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I remember a day I tried so hard, so desperately hard, to be the “perfect first daughter”. It was results day. I hadn't failed- and I hadn't passed either (according to my father). In my head, I was over the moon at how much I'd exceeded my previous term's average and how many As I had but it wasn't enough. I was the first in the class. I was a measly, worthless second. What's an 88. average compared to a 92.? I wasn't afraid because I knew my parents will never hurt me for second place but what is physical hurt when you've got words sharper than daggers shot at you. I stood before them that day, struggling to answer the commonly asked question. The person that took forst has two heads abi? I couldn't falter, I couldn't make a mistake, not in front of them. My siblings were watching. I was the example. I had failed once, I couldn't fail again, in front of them.

The headache's getting worse and I may or may not be fighting back tears.

Till the next time I spiral, my loves.