ig: @aalexoux

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deepeeeeeeer! check out my other posts 🤍

ig: @aalexoux

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

So…you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

So…you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

—
Thanks for reading xox
Alex.

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

author’s note: if you or someone you know is experiencing any form of abuse, please reach out and speak up. there is no romance in abuse, and surviving it should never be romanticized. You are not alone, and there is help available.

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts <3

¿yo nunca te he hablado de ella? ella era como, como una puesta de sol, ¿sabes? como ver el mar después de mucho tiempo. (lo que hay x aquí - rels b)
provocaste profunda admiración en este inseguro niño, que con tus guiños desenvuelve. (lucky charm - pol granch)
porfa, entiéndeme, ya estuve roto. un hombre más llorando, todos saquen foto. (no digas nada - latin Mafia)

But please, don’t play those songs for me anymore. They only call out his name, leaving the silence to collapse upon me like stone.
I can still feel the weight of the words he whispered against my ear while we were drunk at that karaoke bar. We were surrounded by so much music that it actually drove me to write for him. My melancholic and erotic pieces turned into lyrics he’d sing to me on long road trips to the coast. I was never a songwriter, but somehow, he became the muse for an entire album.
As if the things I wrote could touch him deeper than hands ever could. As if they carried some secret ingredient nobody else possessed.
But maybe it was the beautiful, complicated shades of his personality that inspired me. Or the way he yearned for me, his warm fingertips lighting fires every time they brushed my skin. I loved it all—even the chaotic, messy moments he brushed off as nonsense. Even now, with this broken heart, I know I would have stayed for as long as he’d let me. Life was effortlessly easy with him by my side. I didn’t fear his past or his future. Not even mine.
I never wanted to be devoted to anyone. I didn’t believe in religion or priests. But then he looked at me one day and told me I was an angel born from hell, that kindness grew inside me like some kind of miracle. So I surrendered. I became devoted to him, kneeling at the church of his love and his lust.
We recognized the pain and sorrow in each other instantly. We both knew what it meant to love and to be loved, just as we knew the stinging reality of heartbreak. We knew that a night of desperate sex never actually fixes the cracks in a person’s foundation. And that love can’t save us from our own misery.
I press my hands against my chest right now…alone in the dark.
The pain is absolute. This isn’t a metaphorical heartache; it feels like the physical tearing of muscle, a violent inflammation of every nerve ending I possess.
I want him so badly, but I know I’ll explode into radioactive dust trying to reach his heart. I’m the one who planted the landmines, terrified of being loved by someone as bright as him.
The worst part is that he kept stepping over them anyway. Again and again, he reached for me with open arms while I kept mistaking tenderness for danger. I watched the hurt spread across his face each time I pulled away, and still I did it. Still I chose fear.
Please don’t blame me for being suffocated by my own insecurities.
I was an ocean trying to fit inside his teacup, a storm he couldn’t weather, that’s why I made sure to push him away before he could leave me first.
Our souls felt intertwined across an endless timeline. “Where have you been my whole life?” I’d whisper into the quiet when he used to sleep heavily against my chest. And then my midnight thoughts would poison it: I don’t deserve this tenderness. I don’t deserve the love you’re promising me. Because the truth is, I am not a problem he can solve.
I think that’s what finally broke us. Not the distance. Not the timing. Not the scars we carried into each other’s arms. Just my endless inability to believe that someone could look at all my ruined pieces and still decide to stay.
Every time my fear won and I told him I was leaving, he’d unravel himself for a chance at redemption. He’d plead with me to fight for us, swearing he had tasted others but no one tasted quite like me. He promised he’d fight my darkest demons and always come back.
And fuck, how could I not believe him? I’m completely damned.
A low, pathetic sound escapes my throat—a choked sob that I violently force back down into the hollow spaces of my ribs.
There’s something about nights like this. Lying alone in my bed, gripping my own body like it’s about to evaporate into the shadows, all I can think is that I belong woven into the very fabric of his being. Somewhere inside the DNA rushing through his veins, inside the beating organ we call a heart. And he belongs to my soul, which feels almost entirely gone without him. Not because he ever belonged to me, but because loving him had rooted itself so deeply inside me that I no longer knew where it ended.
Most of all, we simply belong to each other. Even if time refuses to let us be together. Even if the earth’s heavy axis turns its back on us, separating our waking hours. Even if our life timelines are entirely wrong.
Even if loving each other has always hurt more than it should.
Maybe loving him was never the tragedy.
Maybe teaching myself to survive without him is.
Stay.
Please.
Just stay a little longer.
You can let me go tomorrow.

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts <3

Her

Breakups don’t start the day both people end the relationship. Breakups start long before that. You don’t decide something like that in one or two days. It is a slow burn between two souls that don’t love each other the same way. A breaking point and a grief. Maybe one soul calcined the other one with too much intensity. So much that the other one just became dust. Nothing.
Our breakup hadn’t been a clean break; it had been a slow, agonizing amputation.
He had ruined me. He had dragged me down into the black water of his depression until the lungs of my soul were filled with his sorrow, and even now, free of him, I was still suffocating.
I scratched my nails against the wall, holding myself up with trembling hands while I rode a tall blonde guy beneath me. We had been seeing each other for a couple of weeks now. I called him my exorcist. But even if every night he pushed inside me trying to find light in me… the darkness came crawling back the second the encounter was over. Every time I gave him the performance he required. But beneath the surface, I was counting the seconds for it to end.
He made a rough sound in his throat, announcing he was getting closer. But I didn’t care. I pushed myself harder just to end this faster. He screamed my name while squeezing one of my breasts, coming undone beneath me.
I let my body fall beside him on the mattress. I was ashamed of the person I had become just to forget. I was a parasite drawing life from this guy’s warmth while keeping my soul buried in a grave with him. He pulled me closer with his big arms, pressing our naked bodies together. A single gesture of kindness and comfort that I didn’t deserve at all. Just because my mind was still spiraling around him.
I moved uncomfortably in his arms, trying to picture the past. The long nights in our apartment when the sun caught the mattress near the window. When coffee and tea were the only fragrances in the air. There were no screams or silence. Just pure love and yearning flowing from heart to heart.
Cold hands brought me back to reality. His icy fingertips reached my sensitive skin again. I pushed him away, excusing myself to go to the bathroom. I picked up my phone and one oversized shirt from the floor. “Play some music now that you’re up,” he said with a wide smile. He was charming. For every single girl but me. And that made me feel even more monstrous.
I picked up one of the vinyls near the door and let it play. The melodic sound drowned my ears. He turned to me with a confused expression, like all he could hear was noise. “That shit sounds awful, babe. Change it,” he said, laughing like it was a joke.
Maybe it was for him.
But for me, it was the song he played the most. More than ten thousand times. It was his favorite song.
Before I could burst into tears, I changed it and locked myself in the bathroom. Tears burned my eyes and fell like cascades of lava down my cheeks.
I collapsed onto the cold tiled floor, hiding myself between my legs.
The pain was eating me alive. Like something ripping the guts out of my body. The feeling of emptiness was swallowing my blood little by little. I pressed my hand against my chest, trying to hold my heart. Trying not to let it get sucked into the void he left behind.
This wasn’t fair.
I tried to be everything he liked. I learned his favorite songs by heart. I let him teach me a third language just because he wanted us to be smarter. I went out with his friends to bars to smoke and drink just because they missed him. We made love under the moonlight because he woke up scared from nightmares. I learned how to cook his favorite food just to surprise him on random Tuesday nights. I listened to his endless talks about his pain and the things that made him mad.
I loved him with everything I had, and because of that I deserved nothing?
He was never satisfied with anything I did. And I guess he never will be. The good nights turned into endless fights where the stars cried with me until we all disappeared. The kisses turned into screams and silence all at once. The laughs during our dates became awkward conversations about the hurt inside our hearts.
Where did the good things go? The first times?
Maybe they were just that. First times that we would never catch again. They washed away in the sink with all our dreams and illusions. He constantly pushed me out of his orbit when things started to feel heavier. Sadness sat over his shoulders like vultures waiting to eat his bloody flesh. But I guess I was too weak to fight them. I even adopted one for myself.
And I’m scared of birds.
Ironic.
And he will never be sorry for that. For anything, honestly. And that left cracks in my chest that I tried to fill with someone else’s soul.
Now I had become him.
My tears and sobs came out like soft, silent screams. I tried to get back on my feet, but I couldn’t.
I picked up my phone from the floor. My homescreen was now just a simple solid color. No more pictures together. No more unexpected photos of him smoking.
But I like to suffer. Of course I do.
So I scrolled to the photo gallery, because that’s where the hurt lived. All the testimonies of the moments we spent together. Years tattooed into my mind that now burned like hot steel. I bit my lip so hard a metallic taste flooded my tongue.
I wanted to hate him.
Look at what we became.
Was this his plan from the beginning? To fuck up a good girl who did all these things just to be his? The girl who loved him at his worst?
I held the phone tightly in my hands. I looked for his contact and scrolled through our messages. I saw the last message I sent before everything ended.
What a silly girl I was, I thought.
But even then, I could still lie to myself and say he was my beginning, my middle, and my beautiful, chaotic end.
With shaky hands, I started typing.
And then I erased it.
Why did every word sound stupid? Not enough.
“What am I doing?” I whispered to myself. I closed my eyes, pressing my eyeballs into my skull to stop myself from texting him.
Then I threw my phone onto the floor, making a loud noise.
Fuck.

Him

The place smelled the same.
It was the kind of diner with cracked vinyl booths and a menu laminated so many times it felt like armor plating. I sat in the back corner, hiding behind a greasy window, eating alone in a cold metal chair. I ordered what she always used to order: grilled cheese and iced tea.
Lately, it was the only thing I ordered just because somehow it reminded me of her. She was present here even through half-burned bread and cheap american cheese.
I took a bite, letting the flavors settle on my tongue. But today, the taste was bitter. Too heavy to finish.
This was the diner where we celebrated our third anniversary. We had planned to go to a fancy Italian bistro uptown, but my car broke down in the middle of the street, costing us four hundred dollars in towing fees. But back then, we didn’t care about expensive wine or Italian pasta.
So we ended up here at midnight, wearing our best clothes, eating soggy fries and laughing until our ribs ached.
I remembered how she looked that night.
She wore a dark blue silk dress she had bought at a vintage shop. It had a low-cut back, exposing the elegant curve of her spine, her tattoo peeking through. My suit hung loose against my body while sweat crawled down my neck from the heat coming out of the kitchen.
But now, the memory only ends with grilled cheese and tears.
I left ten dollars on the table and walked out, leaving behind half-eaten bread and untouched iced tea.
The night hit me with cold humidity. Rain fell all over me, soaking my clothes against my skeletal body. My jacket wasn’t enough to keep me warm, but our place was only two blocks away.
Well…I guess it’s my place now.
It felt like a lie to call it ours when not even her ghost was around anymore.
The apartment smelled like tobacco and damp wood. It was small, far away from where she lived now.
The floor creaked beneath me with every step. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t have to. The streetlights outside provided enough light, and honestly, I had mapped every corner of the place with my fingers. I knew it by memory.
Since she left, I realized how much space someone can occupy inside a small apartment.
When she lived here, the four hundred square feet felt cozy, bright, like a warm hug. Now, without her, the walls seemed to have receded, leaving vast, echoing expanses of dead space.
But the worst part was that every object left behind had become a landmine.
Everything reminded me of her. Where she placed her things. Where we used to kiss. Where we used to make love endlessly.
I ripped off my heavy, damp jacket and dropped it onto the floor. I reached for the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter, not bothering with a glass. The liquid burned its way down my throat, a harsh, fleeting heat that tried—and failed—to cauterize the raw wound in my chest. I dropped myself onto the couch, drinking my own sorrow. The whiskey reached my veins, making my face burn.
“Why are you still doing this to yourself?” I muttered.
But the truth was, I stayed like this because the pain was the only thread left connecting me to her. If I stopped hurting, if I let the anger and grief scab over, it would mean admitting that what we had was truly gone. I couldn’t accept that.
I would rather bleed out slowly, watching her from the dark, than heal and forget the color of her eyes.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a message from the bank. My battery was almost dead. I coughed out a bitter laugh. I don’t need a new fucking credit card. I don’t need a new life. I need her.
I closed my eyes, and my own mind betrayed me.
Snapshots of her beauty. The way she made my chest feel warm. I saw the smooth, pale expanse of her skin. The tiny mole below her left shoulder blade—a mark I used to call my northern star.
But then another memory appeared like poison ivy crawling through my neurons.
Two weeks ago, I walked past her favorite coffee shop. The only place with good tea, she used to say. And she was there. But she wasn’t alone. A stupid tall blonde guy slid his hand across her back, pulling her closer. He leaned down to whisper something into her ear. She laughed. Not the fake kind. Not the one she used on strangers. The real one.
That laugh was mine.
I opened my eyes and immediately felt sick. I wanted to throw up the memory of her with someone else. I grabbed the trash can beside the couch and held onto it tightly. My stomach violently contracted. I gagged, dry-heaving into the plastic bin while my ribs ached from the force of it. Nothing came up except bitter bile and the stale taste of whiskey and cigarettes. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Was this her punishment? Was this my fault? Was the universe trying to tell me to move on?
But I don’t think this is something I could ever move on from. She had become part of me.
I took another swig of whiskey, the alcohol finally beginning to numb the sharp edges of my mind. I grabbed my phone and stood from the couch. I barely managed to walk before collapsing onto the mattress near the window.
I pulled a pillow over my head, trying to block the light, drown the noise, stop my heart. But every single time it went dark, she appeared.
My demons—the anxious shadows that had plagued my mind since youth—had started bleeding into our sanctuary before I even realized it. I had choked her with my need for reassurance. Dragged her down into my quiet, suffocating depressions until she couldn’t breathe either. I had broken the very thing I worshipped because I didn’t know how to hold it without crushing it.
I hadn’t just been an asshole.
I had been a parasite.
I took her warmth to keep my own cold blood moving, and when she had nothing left but cold skin herself, I hated her for it.
It was unfair. It made me the worst kind of human being. And now I had to live with it.
She hadn’t talked to me since the day she stuffed all her clothes into a giant bag and left. I couldn’t do anything. I stayed in bed angry at her because I thought she was “giving up.”
But she wasn’t.
She was doing what was best for her. Leaving behind a mass of broken hearts and tears. And now I missed her more than ever.
I hated myself for not reaching for her the moment she walked out the door. It killed me that I let her go that easily.
I crushed the pillow against my face. My breathing became uneven. I wanted to crawl inside her. I wanted to lose the identity of myself—the depressed, miserable bastard—and become only the friction between her legs. The warmth of her hands. The touch of her passion.
Tears soaked into the fabric covering my eyes.
This was fucking eating me alive.
I pulled the pillow away and grabbed my phone. I scrolled to her contact and opened our chat. The last text she sent before everything turned to ashes.
“Don’t wait up for me. Hope you’re feeling better. See you home <3” And then nothing. As if we had simply paused. As if our relationship had frozen inside those messages forever.
I tried typing something, but nothing came out. Just like every other time I tried to talk to her. And maybe it was because there was nothing left to say. Any apology now would just sound like meaningless words.
The second I locked my phone again, it buzzed loudly in my hands.
Carelessly, I looked down. And my heart stopped.
I couldn’t breathe.
One fucking message.
Twenty-three letters.
A single question.
Maybe the only one that mattered.
It was her.
After all this fucking time.
The words crashed into my skull like fireworks and bullets.
“Are you busy tomorrow night?”
Fuck.

—

Thanks for reading xox
Alex.

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

My fingers fell onto my cherry cheeks, all blushed up because of hot blood rushing right beneath the surface. By this time of the year, the apartment becomes a sterile, breathless desert. I could feel the microscopic pores across the bridge of my nose weeping—tiny, saline pearls of sweat pooling over my freckles, those quiet constellations of melanin synthesized in the dark layers of my epidermis. I rolled over the bed, feeling the heavy complexity of a body that felt beyond perfect. With my right fingertips, I touched my left hand, tracing every line that has been drawn through the years—some deeper than others. I noticed my nails getting imperfectly longer, two of them marked by the pale, calcified scars from a strike. I found the two little freckles on my right middle finger and my left little finger: brown dots that have painted my fingers for years. I could easily trace the blue-green veins in my hands. I pressed down hard, feeling the thick, rhythmic pulse of oxygenated mud rushing through the vascular mesh while they were feeding my hungry tissues with nutrients and oxygen. I crunched my hands, admiring my ten skinny fingers. They were the tools to work. I need them to create. To write this. To even feel myself.

I kept tracing my way to my arms, the skin sticking to the bones, making me imagine the skeleton beneath. I could feel the hard calcium holding up my body, keeping it from being a mere sack of flesh and blood. My veins were painted all over my arms under my tattoos. On both arms, I counted four. The ink, nested deep within the dermal layers, was still dark and readable. These are the self-inflicted scars of my autonomy. Ornaments that I decided to put on me, reminders of the life I want to live and who I am. Maybe I wanted to be born like this, but at least I will take them to my grave. My fingertips found my neck and collarbones, the bones pushing and breaking through my tense skin. Memories of how many times they were kissed by lips that promised to love me, leaving purple bruises all along them. Vampire bites and suicidal kisses that tried to swallow the blood of my jugular vein. I dipped my fingers deep into the hollow, shadowed craters of my collarbones, trying to guess where some freckles hide.

My fingers finally reached my breasts, twitching a wave of goosebumps across my entire body. The pink little buttons contracting just by the touch of my own skin. I won’t play too much with them, because it will make me remember him. It will make me yearn for his lips to cover them and suck my soul out from my chest. I reached the cage of my ribs—hard, bony bars protecting the wet machinery inside. Another tattoo lay hidden under my right breast over the ribs. I could count how many bones were there just by pushing into my skin. I traced the spaces between them, as if I were searching for my heart or lungs, trying to touch them from the outside, feeling the wet, rhythmic thumping of organs trapped behind their cage while my diaphragm pulled and pushed in the dark.

Freckles splashed on my abdomen, making constellations. Maybe from all the kisses of my past lives. Maybe too much sun. Maybe too much passion. I reached the middle of my ribs, pressing my finger between them, forcing the air from my lungs and taking my own breath away. The acidic gastric juices burned my esophagus. I kept pressing my finger down to where my viscera should be—my intestines and stomach, which made a gurgling sound. I was hungry. My own body was claiming to be fed, demanding mass to consume. My belly button in the middle of my body reminds me of birth, of the umbilical cord that once bound me to the human that created me. A conductor of life that was closed until I became the conductor to a new life. But maybe I will never be; maybe this was just a souvenir life left me since birth.

My lower belly tensed when my fingers reached it. What a gift to be a woman, I thought. I traced the internal alignment of my ovaries—those beautiful, violent motherfuckers. Every single month they demand a blood sacrifice, punishing me for the crime of existing. They scream inside me like a demon in a horror movie. I feel like they rip my bloody guts out. I think I will never get used to it, not even when I get my last bleed.

Finally, my fingers landed upon my folds—the raw, slippery mystery of any girl. The single altar in this flesh designed exclusively for the unravelling of ecstasy. A little sweet button that can unravel a tsunami between our thighs. The only place almost as sacred as the soul. An intimate body part that people turned into a tool, a curse, a sin. But it is beyond that. It is the gift of pleasure. The only sensitive spot where love can be found just by touching it or licking it. The only organ that has to be revered. Adored. A church of pleasure made of flesh.

Before I started to drip, my fingers fell onto my thighs. The raw muscle strength they can hold. A place to kiss, to devour, to disappear. I remember all the times they pressed their bodies against me with sweat and desire, trying to keep them inside me, filling my body. Attempting to fill my empty spaces. I stretched my legs out fully, feeling how long they were, how much they have grown through the years. How my skeletal frame stretched to make me taller, to make me reach his lips every time we kiss. All the way down my legs, I found many bruises created by ghosts. Their colors changed like the seasons, painting patches of galaxies—purple, blue, yellow—like rotting stars dissolving into my skin. I pressed them with my fingers, searching for pain, for a reason. But they were almost gone, so not even pain could make them feel horrible. But I love them. I love how they add color to my pale skin, giving me some kind of personality. I finally reached my feet, cold and thin. No socks covered them, so I could sleep better on these burning nights. Some people find them erotic, but I just need them to take me to places I have never been before. And I need them to wear my favorite shoes.

The body in its complexities is perfect. Nothing works without the other. And if we look closer, there is going to be more of it. Atoms colliding to form cells. Cells weaving into tissue. Tissue that makes skin that covers my whole body like a coat. The skin protecting my organs and nerves from feeling constant pain or discomfort. Even my hair gives me a sort of warmth on cold days, trapping a thin layer of air against my scalp like an ancient, protective insulation. I think of this mass as a whole universe inside the actual universe. Life is inside us, and it is working to keep us alive. A temple of complex living things. The house of physical and spiritual beauty. The body is not just a place where organs and matter live; it is the house of the soul. It is the friction point where the seen and the unseen collide. It guards the spark. It hoards the reason to live. It hides the true self behind a wall of blood and bone. And that makes us the most beautiful, terrifying creatures to ever walk the earth.

Thank you for the 100 subscribers. Honestly that sounds insane to me ♡
This piece feels way more vulnerable than the things I usually post here. While writing it, I kept getting lost thinking about how horrifying and beautiful our bodies actually are. Like…we are literally made of blood, nerves, organs, electricity, memories, desire, pain, and somehow a soul still lives inside all of that flesh. Sometimes I forget how complex being alive really is. Thank you for being here, for reading my weird little thoughts, and for making me feel less alone inside this weird body.

And if you’re new to this space and liked this piece, share it with someone or subscribe — it means more than you think ✨

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The heat of the summer day was unbearable, and the A/C was losing the battle to chill our bodies. I was melting into the seats of the red jeep, my flesh fusing with the leather. I stretched my feet up on the dashboard, trying not to become one with the car. He put his window down, letting the violent rush of hot air and dust come in. He picked up a cigarette from the box near the soda, his movements slow and heavy. I held my wild hair back with a band and turned my sight to the window. My parents didn’t know I was here with him, all alone—and I preferred it that way. I liked to play the “good girl” game with them, but the only moment I felt I truly earned that title was when he said it. When his juicy lips devoured mine and turned them sore, swollen, and cherry red. He treated me well—better than any other guy around me. Maybe it was written in the stars, or in the constellations, that he was made for me and I was made for him.

When we reached the palms near the street, it was the signal that we were close to the beach. At least an hour left. He placed his hand on my thighs by habit—a silent, familiar anchor. Maybe he was excited we were close to our destination; I knew he had been planning this for weeks. But the temperature was making me feel sick. My head was burning, and my whole body was slick with sweat. I reached for the soda and drank it all. Cold drops from the can fell over my chin, traveling all the way to my chest, giving me a sudden, electric shiver of goosebumps. I suggested a break from the long road, maybe to smoke a cigarette and stretch our legs. He wasn’t okay with that at the beginning—he was too excited to arrive—but after a few “please, babes,” he just chuckled with that wicked little smile of his. Damn, he was so gorgeous.

He searched for the perfect spot, and after some stops, he found an old parking lot. He parked the red jeep and turned off the engine, leaving just the music throbbing in the background. He just stayed there, looking at the keys. But I turned first, with a little smirk, challenging the silence. Because he could read my mind or something, he understood why I had suggested the break. He knew I liked to play, but this was different.

“It’s too hot in here, Alex, you could pass out underneath me,” he said, joking with a nervous laugh, but I wasn’t joking at all. The heat of my body had mutated into desire, and that made me need him with a desperation that hurt. I didn’t answer him. I just made my way to the back seat, pushing my body through the narrow gap in one clean move. When I settled, I caught his eyes, daring him to join me. I knew he was naughty, but was he as much as me? Without thinking, he jumped into the backseat. The jeep wasn’t big enough to be comfortable, but that friction turned me on more. The tight space forced us to squeeze our bodies into each other. I could feel myself dripping—my thighs already wet with something other than sweat. I climbed onto his body and placed myself on top. He was about to explode in his pants; I could feel it. Barely holding it together, he moaned against my neck desperately. Maybe he was in pain because of the denim pressing against him, or the weight of my heat over him. Anyway, his moans were liquid nectar to my ears. His hot breath on my neck made me wish he would just bite me like a vampire and drink my soul out. His hands explored my back, clenching into my flesh as if he were trying to mold my body into his own.

And when we managed to take off our clothes—peeling the damp fabric from our skin—our bodies melted into each other like butter. Saliva on our skin, and of course, my makeup was ruined. With a confident stroke, he got inside me. My lips pronounced nothing but his name. He claimed me with a kiss, devouring my taste like it was the only hydration he needed. He was so gentle, but the heat in the car was ascending to a breaking point. The lack of oxygen made him desperate. His hands held me like I could disappear into the steam gathering on the windows. Kanye West was banging through the speakers while he banged me—holding both of my wrists behind my back, pinning me to the moment.

And after a while, we were so close. I felt both of our bodies colliding into something bigger—a cosmic wreck. I was moaning nonsense into his mouth. I didn’t even remember what I murmured—manifesting this forever. More jeep fucking during beach trips. He held my hips tight, keeping me in place. My name came from his lips like a prayer—as if he were praying to his god to keep him sane. He scratched my back when he came undone underneath me. I just sank into him and pressed my body deeper while I rode the aftershock.

We were immobilized, limbs tangled in the backseat. “Goddamn, I wasn’t expecting this on our way to the beach,” he said, taking a strand of hair away from my face. He was breathless, but he didn’t care. He was smiling like a fool. I didn’t know what to say; I was so in love with him already.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever made,” he whispered, too softly for me to hear. “And I didn’t even make you. I just… found you. And thank God I did.” He continued touching my bare arms with his rough hands. “Fuck, I think I love you,” he said, looking into my eyes and telling the truth. It was as if the car had become a church and the backseat the confessional. I could feel my swollen lips freeze at the sight of him—at the reality of his words. He was totally in love with me. I turned my sight to him and swam in his eyes. Damn, I was so down for him too. Tears burned my eyes. Don’t cry, I reminded myself. Guys don’t like tears after sex. But when the first tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, he drank it with kisses. He cupped my face as if I were made of porcelain. Soft kisses landed on my forehead, giving me comfort. He never hesitated to make me feel better.

After cleaning the mess with the napkins we found in the car and putting our clothes on, the red jeep continued its way to the beach house. Now, SZA was playing on the radio. But I wasn’t looking at him, and he wasn’t looking at me. We were both flushed with a secret glow, with no tongue to speak. My throat was dry—a quiet hallelujah for the lost water bottle on the floor. The silence between us spoke louder than any pillow talk. The moans and sweat still lingered in the air. The sweet smell of our burning bodies was stuck in my nose, and the touch of his hands was etched like bruises into my arms and legs.

But what we didn’t know was that we were just starting a huge thing here. This was the creation of something. A big bang. The first days with the red jeep and our love story. This was the car I wanted to ride forever, and the person who I wanted to ride it with. The red jeep was about to testify to the best relationship I ever had. And ever will.

Thank you for being here 🧚🏼‍♀️
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—
And somewhere between imagining you leaving and imagining you staying, I start losing the line between what is real and what I’ve already lived a thousand times in my head.
Because loving you—even before touching you—already feels like something that could ruin me or remake me completely.
—
The sun was almost gone in the already big, starry night. You were hypnotized by the beauty of mother nature. I was just staring at you like an idiot, probably, but I couldn’t help thinking that I want to wake up every morning in the warmth of your arms. Feel the softness of your skin resting against mine. Have forehead kisses that slowly drift into fingertips in my tights. And then some breakfast by the balcony.
I would like to take you for a walk at the beach. Watch hundreds of sunsets like this one and get annoyed because you want to take too many pictures, capturing versions of me I don’t even recognize.
We could share a trip, maybe get to know places we haven’t seen before. I know you would want to taste everything—the weirdest food, the most arcane brew—and probably make me try it too. And by night, we could go dance through the hush of midnight. Sweat between strangers. And while you press me into your body, I kiss you until we both need air again—like we forgot the world existed outside of that second. After that, of course, we could go back to your place, stay too close, too quiet, until everything between us collide.
I could let you kiss my tights and taste me, and I would probably end up fading away. Because damn, you know how to make me lose my mind. And maybe that’s the danger of you.
I think I would like that. But I also know how this goes. We wouldn’t be gentle forever. You would find the parts of me I try to keep hidden. And I would do the same.
You will break my heart so many times that not even the sorries or the goodbyes will matter.
I know we will say things we never meant. You will get annoyed with me. And I will get bored. Maybe you could even cheat on me—with a pretty girl. The good one. The cool girl.
And you will blame me for it. I won’t be enough. I won’t be pretty. You could even say that I wasn’t the best you ever had, when I probably was.
We will end things and then come back later.
Saying sorry, counting how many nights you cried for me. That you became tears from how much you missed me. Crawling desperately for a spark of forgiveness.
And who was I to tell you no?
Silly girl. I came back for crumbs and sex like any fool. Silly girl.
But strangely, you become the person I thought I lost. You will bring me flowers—white ones, of course. You know how much I love them. And some nights, when you have something to celebrate, you will take me to dates and parties with your friends. Life will start to feel better. A little less blue.
But sometimes—just sometimes—good things don’t last. And neither would we.
You will probably run away again. But this time, we won’t care.
You’ve done it once. You will do it again.
But standing there, with the ocean breathing beside us and the night slowly taking over the sky— I decide not to care. Not this time. I fix my hair. Brush the sand off my skin. Pretend I I emerged from the sea. Like I belong next to you. And even if I already know how this ends—I walk toward you anyway. Because maybe in this life we could be something. Maybe a friend, maybe a stranger, maybe a lover.
So please—let me be your lover.

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

So… you made it this far. Might as well fall a little deeper — check out my other posts ✨

Tokyo
The crowd buzzed around me, faces I didn’t recognize, strangers in the night. Blue light spilled across every surface, making everything feel so cinematic, like for the first time life was worth living.
I liked it here. The anonymity. The way you could exist without being fully seen. A feeling only Tokyo could give.
A girl on stage finished an unfamiliar song at karaoke, and for a moment, the entire room felt suspended in the same breath. She was magnetic, the kind of presence that makes you fall in love just by watching. The audience erupted into applause, some people even standing, shouting in different languages.
Karaoke nights had become a ritual every time I came here, a secret place where we could feel music together, share something real even if we didn’t understand the words. You could feel them, swallow them, let them turn into electricity. That’s what music does. It translates what we can’t say.
When it was my turn, I didn’t think too much. I never do. Karaoke should be raw, honest. The fear is part of it, the uncertainty, the possibility of getting it wrong.
I stepped onto the stage, nervous in the way I was supposed to be, the glowing screen reflecting on my face as the crowd disappeared into darkness. The first notes of Yours by Maye started to play and I followed, most people probably not understanding a word, but we were all floating together inside the melody. I stretched the microphone cable and stepped off the stage, moving through the crowd, dancing between strangers, locals, foreigners, and then him.
My eyes landed on him the moment the light allowed it. Sitting alone at a small table in the center. He wasn’t trying to stand out, just to see, to enjoy. And if he let me, I wanted him to see me. Our eyes collide, and the universe was made again. Thank God I knew the lyrics by heart, because in that moment everything disappeared, it was just him and me, and the song became his.
His lips parted slightly, like he was trying to catch the last breath in the room, his eyes never leaving mine. The chorus stretched endlessly, time bending around us. Why did he feel familiar? Had I seen him before, in another dream, another life? My mind split in two, trying to stay on key while searching for him in my memory, and I could tell he felt it too, that same invisible pull, like gravity bringing us back into the same orbit.
By the time the song ended, I already knew I wouldn’t walk away. Neither did he.
The applause exploded around me, adrenaline running through my body as I placed the microphone back. We found each other without hesitation, like two lines finally crossing after running parallel for too long.
Outside, the night wrapped around us. For a moment, we just stood there, like we had been running for lifetimes. He stepped closer, then closer again, until there was almost no space left between us. “I don’t know who you are, but…” he started, trying to sound calm, failing beautifully. “I have this feeling that I’d wait ten thousand lifetimes just to find you again.”
And then he kissed me—not rushed, not desperate, but slow, deep, eternal, like he was pouring every unsaid promise directly into my soul.

New York

An hour in, and I had already let go of myself—drinks, a gummy, someone passed a joint. He had glitter on his neck from some fairy girl who tried to flirt with him. He pressed me against the wall, grabbing me like no one was watching, his tongue in my mouth, his hands familiar in a way that made everything else feel distant. “Let’s get out of here,” he said against my mouth, his voice low, impatient.
New York had a way of bringing us back together, not gently, but all at once. Like a collision you see coming and still don’t avoid.
Everyone expects something from me, and the worst part is pretending I’m fine, pretending the world is worth living in, when if I’m honest, it’s only worth it when he’s is around me. Not even fame gives me this kind of ecstasy.
The cold outside hit harder than I expected, music blasting from every corner, costumes blurring into strangers, everyone becoming something they weren’t. And tonight, I wasn’t the pop star the world pretended to care about, I was a lover, a soulmate, a woman starving for connection—his connection.
The wind tangled my hair as he lit a cigarette. We didn’t say much. Maybe we were too drunk or too high for words to fully exist. But we didn’t need to. There are silences that say more than words ever could, and this was one of them. By the time we reached the hotel, the distance between us had already dissolved.
Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, white sheets, a perfect view of the city beneath us. He didn’t waste a second, his lips on my neck, pressing me against the cold window as he moved lower. It didn’t matter how many times he left my heart unsatisfied, he always made sure my body was. He followed the path of my freckles down to my hips, dropping to his knees, his eyes darker now, pupils blown wide with desire, as if desire was the only drug we needed. I tangled my fingers in his curls, pulling him closer, but he stopped just to leave me wanting more before guiding me to the bed.
The smell of wood and alcohol made me dizzy, and in a snap I was naked against him, under his ribs, beneath his heart, goosebumps traveling across my skin, making me feel lucky, making me fall for him all over again.
He worshipped me until the sun began to rise, the light washing over our bodies in soft orange, and I knew the fairytale was over.
No happy ending, just the scent of his skin on mine and the trace of his desire on my body. He picked up his clothes while I stayed tangled in the sheets, his flight only hours away, the world continuing like nothing had happened.
He looked at me like it was the last time, and maybe it was. Tears burned in my eyes as we said goodbye, I don’t think he noticed.
I didn’t want to let go, but eventually our lips separated. He said he would miss me, I didn’t ask him to mean it. Because I already knew the truth. This version of us was never meant to stay. But I know I’ll see him again, and even if I have to lose this life to do it, I will find him in another.

Paris

My body felt sore from last night, we both got a little messy after my rehearsal. The taste of wine still lingered on my lips as I rolled over in bed, reaching instinctively for him, only to find the space beside me empty.
I stretched my body, feeling the path of his kisses still burning on my collarbones, my back, my legs, and turned to the window where the light painted the room in gold and pink. Spring in Paris had arrived without asking. Everything outside was beginning again, blooming in the most beautiful way, and what a fortune it was to have him around.
I got out of bed, rubbing my eyes as I adjusted to the sunlight, washed my face with cold water that burned my cheeks red, and picked up a forgotten T-shirt from the floor to cover my naked body.
He was already awake. Of course he was.
Barefoot in the kitchen, humming a Phil Collins song. There was always a quiet mess in the kitchen only he could understand. He always cooks after we make love, even the next day, like the taste of sex demands a flavor to chase it.
After the night, that’s how our ritual begins—warm pancakes made from scratch, juicy fruit scattered across the plate, fresh juice from the oranges in our garden, and tea to balance the warmth in our bodies. He turned when he noticed me and smiled, his green eyes lighting up like fireworks and making my stomach flip.
Art became our language, in our own ways, but it became how we spoke to each other. He showed me his soul through spices, herbs, and flavors, making me taste his lust and desire, showing me how our love lingers on the tongue. I showed him mine through movement, through melodies, through sweat and the language of my body. We lived under each other’s skin, burning ourselves open, and that was addictive, the kind of love so intense it could start a fire in the room.
From the moment we met, the connection was indescribable, we were pulled by fate and time, like a string finally finding its end, or maybe not. A current running through our bodies, electrifying the heart. Call us twin flames, call us lovers traveling through time, call us explorers of the skin. Maybe I was made of old women’s souls and a passionate, Dracula-like heart, maybe I was meant to love beyond what is known, to melt in his hands. And maybe I say all this simply because I am in love with him. Why wouldn’t I be?

Scotland

The cold in the big room lingered through the last hours of the day, wrapped in the noise of men, whisky, and steel. The table was loud, messy, alive in a way that felt distant to me, because all I could feel was him, his eyes fixed on me from across the room.
Was it the tight corset pushing my breasts up, or the way my hair was perfectly arranged on my head? I could feel the heat rising to my skin, my hands damp, my pulse quickening as if my body had already recognized him before I allowed myself to. I drank my glass in one breath. “More, please,” I said. The man beside me filled it without question. The whisky running through my veins steadied me, or at least gave me the illusion of it.
When I turned to him, he was still looking at me. There was something in his gaze—intensity, yes, but softened by something quieter, tenderness. His redheaded curls fell over his forehead, and for a moment I could swear my heartbeat was synchronizing with his.
It was a magnetic connection, like something was pulling us together, trying to make our skins crash and melt like metal into one, because somehow I knew he knew that we were meant to breathe the same air, stand under the same sunlight, and love each other for eternity.
But like everything good in this place, he was forbidden. I belonged to someone else, promised long before I understood what that meant.
Dinner tasted like nothing, like every night. I wished for better treatment in the castle, but around me, men drank and reached for whatever they pleased, mistaking hunger for power. But he was different. I could see it in the way he held himself, in the way he watched instead of taking. We wanted the same thing—to be loved, to be held so gently you feel like a feather floating in an endless sky.
I excused myself, leaving behind a full room, an empty glass, and cold food not even the dogs would want. My shoes echoed against the stone as I walked away, announcing my exit, but no one cared, except him.
Walking down the hallway, I heard footsteps behind me, heavy, steady, unhurried, just enough to make me feel the tension growing in my chest. I reached my room quickly, opening the door to escape the noise and the drunkenness, but before I could close it, a hand stopped it. It was him.
He was taller up close. Larger. Broad like the mountains. His loose clothes and kilt marked with blood and dust, traces of the outside.
His hands reached my cheeks, warm and rough, and when he leaned in, I could smell the whisky on him, feel the heat of his breath against my skin. He cupped my face and I leaned into his touch.
His lips brushed my forehead, soft as silk. “You are the only light in this castle,” he murmured, almost to himself, and I felt his words wrap around me like something holy. “You are too kind, my lord,” I answered with the grace he deserved.
He picked me up and closed the door with a single kick, the sound echoing through the room as I sank into the mattress and he slowly removed the layers of my dress, turning it into a slow torture for both of us. That night, we claimed what was already his—my flesh, my spirit, and my bloody heart.

If you met them again in another life, would you choose them the same way?

Him

The cigarette burned out between my fingers. The whole thing had turned into ash beneath my hand. I wasn’t even reading my book anymore. It didn’t matter now.

Summer was wrapped around me. My back was sweating so much that my T-shirt clung to my muscles. My bare feet stretched against the wooden floor, making a soft crack as they held my weight on the chair. Even sitting by the window, with a small breeze brushing my cheek, the air sat heavy on me, unmoving. The day was so hot I could barely think, and that was dangerous. Summer was never good for my empty soul, it had a way of bringing everything back.

Because some things change during summer, you see. It’s not just the hell-like temperature. It’s not the peaches growing on the trees, and it’s not the way I beg for a swim in the pool to cool my body. It’s her. Her fucking way of pulling me in like a magnet. The way she moves, the way she gets close to me, and how with a single laugh, I’m completely at her mercy.

Every summer is the same. She moves differently. She’s more comfortable in her body, but there’s always someone else holding her, kissing her. Just the idea makes me sick.

I kept staring out the window, trying to avoid my thoughts, trying to stop thinking about her. I can’t. Like water, she slips back in quietly, like she was never gone. And lucky me, she was there, lying under the sun, her skin catching light like hundreds of diamonds. How am I supposed to get her out of my mind?

Every summer we spend our days in the old house. Every room is marked with our history and memories. I knew her before all of this—before these messed up feelings. She was different back then, and I was too. And it’s not some cliché shit. It’s just what happens with friends. But it never ends well.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I shouldn’t be thinking about her. Not again. Not now that I’m trying to find my way with someone else. But that doesn’t matter, right? She was already under my skin, running through my veins, spreading through my whole body.

I promised myself I’d let her go. Not think about her swallowed lips pressed against my neck. Her bare skin sticking to mine like we were melting into each other. The way she looked at me like I was the only immortal thing in her life. Maybe I was. Maybe that’s why I wanted more. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about the kiss that never should’ve happened.

I closed my eyes, and instantly she was there, looking at me. Begging for more, arching into me, waiting for my fingers to touch her. Our hearts started racing, a pace we both knew we would end together. Her hands found the bottom of my jeans. I wasn’t even sure if it was real, if her touch against my thighs was really happening. I cupped her face, making her look at me. Her cheeks were red like cherries, her eyes dark as night, and the short strands of her hair tangled in my fingers. Damn, she was perfect. Why couldn’t she be mine?

My hardness was covered by her touch, skin to skin. I couldn’t breathe. She was slow with me, careful, taking her time exploring, holding me like she didn’t want to lose me. I gasped when she took me into her mouth. No warning, just warmth and pressure, just the wetness and pressure around my length. I parted my lips just to breathe, to stay grounded.

It wasn’t just sex. It was knowing. Knowing each other before words. Touching like we were drawing maps of old places on new skin. Like we could find God between collarbones. She wasn’t quiet with me. She lived through it. Every moan, every sigh, every yes was a pulse under my ribs. Every sound she made settled inside my chest. I wanted her to ruin me. I wanted to remember the shape of her breath when she came. And when she did—God, when she did—she said my name like a promise. And I believed it.

I opened my eyes again. Fuck. My body reacted immediately, hard again. Why was this happening to me? I was supposed to see her differently. I wasn’t supposed to crave her like this, to want to take her clothes off, to feel her bare skin again. But I did. I craved her in ways that didn’t make sense. She consumed my mind like a drug, and I didn’t want to recover.

I ran my hand through my damp hair, trying to focus on anything else—the sky, the breeze, the sound of bees outside—but even that reminded me of her, of her hands moving over me.

It felt like we were tied together in ways we couldn’t escape. Our paths got crossed in many ways that we can’t avoid. Or maybe she can, but I can’t. I was intertwined with her soul, her moans belong to me, and her feelings were mixed up with mine.

Does she want me like I want her? Does she think about me the same way? Or is this just me?

My thoughts were interrupted by hands pressing against my chest. A body leaned into my back. A kiss landed on my lips. I turned to look at the girl in front of me, and my breath caught—but not for the right reason. Of course it wasn’t her.

She stood there waiting, searching my face for something I couldn’t give. I couldn’t even look at her properly. I was somewhere else, lost between shame and desire.

I was craving for other flesh, I was insane with other eyes. I was in love with another soul.

She left, probably feeling like nothing because that is what I give to her.

I turned back to the window, hoping to see her by the pool, but she was gone. Disappointed, I checked the time. I was counting the minutes until night came again, until I could find her in the dark, until I could have her again, even if it was only for a moment.

Please, summer, last forever.

Her

The fan wasn’t doing anything. Sunlight pinned half my body to the bed. Fucking summer. Fucking house. I scratched the mosquito bites on my inner thighs, then let my hand stay there a little too long, slowly brushing over my shorts.

What was I doing? I pulled my hand away.

Why does it always start like this? Why did I even come back this year? Why is he here?

Because if I’m being honest, every summer is about him. No exceptions. Since the first time, this place did something to us. And it never really stopped. He comes back like summer, like the heat, like the smell of salt in the air, like coconut sunscreen.

Even when I try to forget him with someone else, he comes back to me. And I go back to him. Every time.

The room felt suffocating. The heat thick and heavy. I got up and walked to the humid bathroom. I took my wet swimsuit from the shower knob, undressed, and pulled it on. Then I looked at myself in the mirror.

I hated it.

Why stay close to him if it hurts this much? Why do I still want to stay under his chest forever?

I traced my skin slowly, following paths of his kisses I already knew by memory.

I closed my eyes, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I was back in my room with him. Everyone else had gone to a beach party, and the moment he got close, everything in us pulled together. Like we had been waiting for it.

He kissed me like I was the only one. Like I was the first. His hands held me in place, like I might disappear.

I knew every detail of him. The freckles on his neck, the way they spread across his chest. I traced them like I was collecting stones.

I didn’t ask if it was right. We both already knew.

His hands cupped my face, and for a moment, I wanted to melt there.

But I was the one who moved first. My fingers pulled at his jeans, pushing them down, impatient. God, I missed him. I arched into him like I belonged there. Like I always had.

I had never done this with anyone else. This was ours. The most intimate kind of love. And when I knelt in front of him, it felt like truth, like I was everything he needed.

The house wooden walls held the scent of salt and of us, of long vacations that refused to fully leave. Even now, at night, while we lay in bed, the heat lingered—softer, more intimate—like something that wanted to stay a little longer.

His breath caught—like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. His eyes, always so intense, shimmered with something raw and unguarded. Not just love, because how couldn’t it be? But I mean devotion. The kind that wasn’t spoken in pretty phrases or romantic gestures—but lived in every quiet look, every protective touch, every time he made sure I was okay even when I didn’t feel like it… when he stayed up cleaning my tears during those long nights… when he held my hand every last day of summer like letting go meant losing part of himself. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at my dark eyes—his lips slightly parted—as if memorizing the shape of my words as they hung between us in the moonlight. Then slowly—he lowered himself until his forehead rested against mine again—our breaths mingling once more—and whispered: “You think I could ever stop?” His voice cracked. “You think my heart would even let me breathe without yours right beside it every summer?”

Then a knock broke everything.

I opened my eyes and looked at myself again in the mirror. Ruined.

“Just a second,” I said, my voice unsteady.

I pulled a T-shirt over my swimsuit. Between my thighs, I was soaked just from thinking about him. I splashed water on my face, trying to bring myself back. I needed to stop thinking about him like this during the day.

I opened the door, and there he was. The one I was supposed to want. He smiled at me like I was everything, like I was his. I smiled back, but it didn’t feel the same.

I barely heard what he said. I was still somewhere else.

I walked past him and made my way to the pool. I needed space, air, anything. There were nine of us in the house, but the rooms kept collapsing into just us two. The rest faded into background noise.

I dropped my towel by the pool and lay down. The sun burned my skin, turning it red like I was paying for something. I rubbed sunscreen over my body, pretending I cared.

I adjusted myself, moving slowly, deliberately. Maybe he was watching. Maybe I wanted him to.

Sweat formed on my skin, small drops sliding down my body into the towel. My swimsuit clung to me. I flipped over, letting the heat take over.

I picked up my book and pretended to read, but I wasn’t reading. I was just waiting. Waiting for night. Waiting for him.

He loved my skin like this. Warm. Bare. Available. Because he is one of those lovers that are addicted to flesh.

That was the problem. He loved me in pieces. Only in summer.

Why are we like this? Maybe I’m too much. Maybe I always was.

Tears burned in my eyes, but I blinked them away before they could fall. Stupid. Why cry over someone who leaves every time?

He never really comes back. Not fully. My messages disappear into nothing on his phone.

I closed the book and stood up. My body ached slightly, but I didn’t care. There wasn’t a single place here that didn’t feel like him. Every corner, every tree, every tile.

I picked up my things and walked away, not even knowing where I was going. Or what to feel.

Please, summer, end fast.

Thank you for being here 🧚🏼‍♀️

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Summer 2015

It was the first time my body allowed me to wear a bikini.
My breasts had finally grown into themselves, my body still thin, still soft with that teenage lightness. I remember running across the beach with my cousins, the sun pressing against our shoulders like something alive.
We were all chasing the perfect picture.
Jumping. Falling. Laughing.
Letting the ocean take us in pieces.
Life felt easy. Like nothing could break yet.

At sunset, everything turned gold — our skin, our hair, the way we looked at each other. We made bracelets with wet fingers and drank virgin margaritas, pretending we were drunk when really it was just sugar rushing through our veins.
At night, we swam under the stars. The water cold against our warm bodies, but we didn’t care. We stayed anyway. Splashing. Laughing. Pretending we were mermaids.
I didn’t know it would be the last summer like that.
I should have stayed longer in the water.

Summer 2019

I had already been grieving past summers, but this one… this one ruined something in me.
I still remember the heat when we stepped out of the car. The sun hit my face so hard it felt violent. My cheeks burned instantly, my body sticky under my clothes.
I wanted to take everything off.
To feel air on my skin.
He introduced me to his family. The house was old, beautiful in that quiet, imperfect way. But none of that mattered.
It was my first summer with him.
Our first road trip.
Our first and last everything.
We had scrambled eggs and Coke for breakfast. “It’s tradition,” he said, serious.
I hated it. I loved it. I accepted it.
Days blurred into heat and laughter — amusement parks, sticky hands, cameras capturing moments that would later haunt me. Because after all the sweetness, all the noise, all the pretending…only silence stayed.
Only the sound of my heart breaking.
He called me a liar.
He left.
Three years gone in a sentence.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember that summer without tasting humiliation on my tongue.

Summer 2020

The world stopped, but summer didn’t.
My house was made of wood back then, and the heat lived inside the walls. I spent my days lying in the grass, listening to bees hum looking for honey and birds calling each other across the sky.

My hair grew longer, wilder, blonde. Tangled by the wind. My skin darkened under the midday sun, turning golden, almost glowing.
I wanted freckles so badly.
Something permanent.
Something to prove I was still alive.
Because inside, I was empty.
I was still waiting for him. Still checking my phone like a maniac. Still feeding a love that had already died.
So I filled the silence with bodies.
With hands that didn’t know me.
With passion that meant nothing.
Bad sex. Temporary warmth.
A distraction I kept choosing.
And still… somehow…
that quiet summer began to clean me. Slowly. Painfully.
Boring lovers. To many selfies. Mirror nudes. Glitter mixed with tears.
I look back and wonder — what was I even doing?

Summer 2021

My hair turned red. Again and again, until it felt like I was becoming fire.
I sat under an umbrella, watching the ocean stretch endlessly, my skin burning from hours of swimming without sunscreen. Salt drying on my body, lips cracked, shoulders aching.
My parents told me to stay out of the sun. I was annoyed. Of course I was.
But something inside me was… calm.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t breaking.
I was learning my body.
Learning its limits.
Learning to keep it for myself.
I made a quiet promise:
no more giving myself to people who don’t know how to hold me.

My brother sat next to me, asking where my mind had gone. He thought it was the burns on my skin.
But it wasn’t.
“I’m finding myself in the waves,” I told him. “In how they always come back, even after traveling miles away.”
He didn’t fully understand.
But he held me anyway.
And that was enough.
That summer, I peeled their fingertips off my skin, their kisses, their bruises—everything past lovers had left behind.

Summer 2023

Festival season.
My favorite kind of summer.
I left home for the first time, heart racing inside my chest, pretending I wasn’t scared of crashing, of burning, of everything going wrong. But I still got on that plane. I still chose the unknown.
Because I wanted more.
More noise. More bodies. More life.

Rooftop heat, expensive drinks, the city glowing under us — it should’ve been perfect. My skin was already sticky, my outfit clinging in all the right places, eyes watching, hands almost touching.
And then… her. Too loud. Too careless. The type that doesn’t just enter a room — she scratches it. Starts things for no reason. Smiles like she’s innocent when she’s already ruined the night.
She kept picking at one of my friends, over and over, like she needed attention to breathe. I remember watching her, jaw tight, thinking: why are you even here?

But the next day—
the real summer started.
We woke up early, still half-tired, half-hungry for more. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed, doing each other’s makeup like ritual. Glitter covering our bodies. Makeup already melting under the sun. Tiny fabrics. Bare skin. Heat rising from everywhere.
Four days of exhaustion.
Four days where our bodies were free.
Sweat. Music. Bodies moving too close. Hands brushing, hips colliding, eyes locking just a second too long.
I swear parts of my soul are still there — somewhere between Rosalía, Billie Eilish, and Tame Impala.
We tripped through a whole set, laughing too hard, feeling everything too deeply. My legs were sore, my throat dry, my skin turning cold and blue, but still — I stayed.

Every night ended the same:
a burning hot shower, glitter washing off slowly, smoke filling my lungs, sleep taking over.
And then again.
And again.

When it ended, it felt cruel. Like being dropped back into a life that didn’t fit anymore.
But something shifted in me.
On the way back home, somewhere between departure gates and tickets, I think I became someone new.
Someone louder.
Someone freer.
Someone who finally stopped asking for permission.

Summer 2025

My long, black hair was my signature, falling down my back like something untamed. I liked to think it made me look like a witch — like it gave me a kind of power, a personality you could almost touch.
Until one day, I cut it all off.
A short bob. A new version of me.
My old hair laid in the trashcan forgotten, like my old life.

That summer tasted like lake water and late nights. I tanned under the sun on boats, capturing everything — every reflection, every movement, every fleeting moment.
I was learning how to see.

Disco lights above my head. Drinks I can’t name. No bra. Skin exposed to the night like it belonged to the stars.
Because summer was made to just enjoy yourself right?
I guess I enjoy myself so much because I ended up in a hospital bed, my body collapsing under something I shouldn’t have taken. The kind of mistake that lingers. Sorry not sorry.
But somehow… it didn’t take the summer away from me.
Because there were still nights. Soft ones.
Lying in bed with him. Watching movies. Laughing quietly. Making love. Sharing food. Sharing space. Sharing something that felt almost like forever.
We made promises under the sheets. The kind that feel real when whispered in the dark.
And every night, before sleeping, I prayed to the stars:
that the next summer would take me somewhere new,
bring me people I’ve only dreamed of,
and let me fall in love again —
with bodies, with the waves, with life.

I change my “projects” or activities depending on how I feel that day or what I suddenly see that I like and think I can do. And for a long time that really frustrated me. I didn’t see it as an advantage for my career or anything. It kept me stuck doing everything but not finishing it.
My Notes app is proof of that. All the “ideas” I write or projects I design just to be useful for a certain period of time. That made me feel like I wasn’t achieving anything, just chasing things without head or feet.
I started to become jealous and frustrated seeing everyone developing their own thing in the area they do best. Sports, art, politics, even traveling. And that made me feel really inferior because if I have A LOT to give, why can’t I do anything?
Not even tons of books, articles, videos, or advice helped me through it. Until I watched a TikTok of a girl talking about the “Wheel of Life.” Honestly, at that time, I didn’t know what it was. But then I did my research (of course, that is one of my multidisciplinary skills) and it turned out to be a way to measure your life and keep it balanced.
I used the Wheel of Life as a map to organize every part of my multidimensional brain.
To be truthful, I used it in a slightly different way.
With everything that is happening in this world, I felt the urge to find myself. It may sound nonchalant, but it’s true. I needed to do something to find what I am really good at and stop feeling like a lost puppy.

I took every section of the Wheel of Life and started separating everything I love to do in order to balance my life. Because if you can do many things and feel like you are many things, maybe this can balance your life too.

The wheel starts with physical health. For me, this was one of the hardest things because yeah, I didn’t move a finger to exercise. I hate the gym and the feeling of being in it. But I NEED to move. My adult body won’t behave if I don’t.
I started searching for something I could actually do that I like. I started thinking about it like sushi. You have to find your roll to actually like it. So I did the same with exercise.
I found my roll in ballet. I used to practice ballet some years ago but I stopped because I was focused on my studies. But damn, I loved it so much. But going back to the discipline and elegance is so satisfying, so I started taking ballet classes again.
Obviously my intention is not to become professional. I just need to move my body. And honestly, going to the gym is an effort I know I won’t maintain. So why can’t I learn a sport just to move my body?
And believe me, the body is so thankful when you start using it. Practicing ballet and dancing is one of those things that I LOVE. Not to perform for others, just for me. I love turning the volume up and dancing along. It’s a way for me to express myself and feel better. That’s why this was my choice to improve my physical health.

The second part of the wheel is personal growth. This one was tricky because I love learning new things, but not at a school or college level.
For many years I’ve been pressured to get a master’s degree in something. But honestly I haven’t found what I want to study enough to invest in it. A master’s degree isn’t an affordable option for me right now, and I needed something I knew I would actually finish (or at least become obsessed enough to continue).
So I decided to learn a new language. Learning a language is like a waterfall of knowledge for your brain. And thanks to the movie Arrival and how it shows the importance and magic of learning a language (because yes, your brain actually expands when you learn one), I decided to start.
Right now I’m learning French and goddamn, it’s hard. But it’s beautiful. I still mess up words all the time, but because I’m learning for myself, I enjoy the process so much. I hope that one day, when I finally get to France, I’ll be able to ask for a baguette properly.

Moving forward, the third part of the wheel is career. If I’m being honest, at first I was very comfortable with this one. I already had a job and I liked it. I thought: “I’m good like this.” But that wouldn’t take me anywhere.
I’m a graphic designer, and where I live my previous jobs were mostly doing designs for Human Resources or useless posts that only my old boss thought were a “great selling idea.” But then I found a job that fulfills me in ways I can’t even explain.
My current job gave me everything I ever wanted in a job. But the consequence was that I became too comfortable enjoying that job and nothing else. I stopped accepting freelance work because I felt “full” or simply didn’t want it. But I was losing potential money by saying no just because I didn’t feel like it.
So I changed that. I continue giving my all to the job I love, but I opened my mind to new freelance opportunities. Of course, being more selective about the ones that actually benefit me and are not just a pain in the ass.

Then comes finances, which might seem like a strange category when you think about creativity or multidisciplinary lives. But the truth is that if you want the freedom to explore many paths, money discipline becomes part of the game.
And this comes from a girl who loves girl math and spending money on clothes or trips. But it’s simple: just save money.
Many years ago I worked in the call center of a bank. Something I learned from all the customers who called was the importance of saving.I remember seeing an old lady with a savings account balance that looked like a phone number. I was in shock, and I promised myself I wanted to be like her someday.
Saving has given me everything I wanted. With consistency and an appropriate amount every month, it can take you anywhere. My savings have taken me to festivals, Europe, and even allowed me to buy a car.
I’m not a millionaire (yet lol), so I didn’t buy the newest car. I bought the one I needed. I didn’t fly first class to Europe. I flew like a normal person. And at the end of those trips, I didn’t owe the bank a single cent because my savings covered everything. This isn’t to show off. It’s just something I think everyone should know: saving can take you anywhere.
And if you are someone who wants to explore many interests and many paths in life, having that financial safety can give you the freedom to actually try them.

For the relationships part, this is one I’m still working on. Being someone who likes to do many things makes me want to attend workshops and learn crafts. But honestly, I’m kind of antisocial. Still, I really want to learn things like sewing or sculpting.
Recently I went with a friend to a sewing workshop and it was amazing. And I realized that relationships also play a role in a multidisciplinary life, because sometimes the people around you are the ones who open the door to new things you would never try alone.

With love and romantic life, my boyfriend and I are cinema lovers. We try to go to the theater as much as possible to watch new movies. We also watch awards season together, and he understands my obsession with movies and series.
So in this part of the wheel I feel like I have the space to explore that love. Maybe I’m not an expert in filmmaking or the technical side of movies. Sometimes it’s even hard for me to remember directors’ names. But I love the feeling a movie can give you. The magic. The new worlds. And being able to share that with my boyfriend is the balance I need.

With spirituality and purpose, I won’t talk much because I don’t like sharing my faith publicly. But I do find it interesting to listen to the faith of others.
My beliefs are very personal, and I feel uncomfortable sharing them out loud.
But I can say that journaling—something I’ve loved since I was 14—helps me a lot with anxiety and depression. And in a strange way, writing has always been one of the places where all my disciplines meet. My thoughts, my questions, my curiosity, my creativity. Everything ends up there.
Of course there is also the love of God. In this part of the wheel I let myself be vulnerable and explore my mind through writing. Not to publish or be seen, just for myself. I think spirituality and purpose are huge parts of living a balanced and peaceful life, whether you believe in God or not.

And then I reached the section that changed everything: recreation.
These are the activities I do simply because they make me happy. When you spend your whole day working or doing things for others, you need a space to do things for yourself. Things that genuinely make you happy. That is gasoline for the soul.
For me this was tricky because, like I said before, I’m multidisciplinary. I needed to separate what is a hobby and what actually brings money to the table.
Even though I work as a designer and do something I love, does that give me butterflies every single day? Not always. So I had to ask myself a serious question: what will give me money, and what will I do purely for the love of art?
I decided that my “designer self” would stay professional. My job, freelance work, all of that. But things like writing, watching movies on my own, reading, painting, or illustrating are things I do purely because they make me happy—even if they don’t bring money.
Even though I hope one day I can live from writing, I don’t want to rush it. Because these things make me so happy that I don’t want to exploit them and end up hating them.
And in my search for my style, this realization changed everything. When you create art based on someone else’s vision or expectations, you start losing yourself. But when you treat something as a hobby and say “fuck it, there are no rules here,” that’s when the change begins.
Your style starts to bloom. You can be messy. You can explore. There are no mistakes because you are experimenting. You are just throwing colors together to see what appears.
And who knows, maybe one day that hobby becomes part of your professional life—on your own terms.

As a multidisciplinary person, I can’t say I found the cheat code or a miracle solution. But when I started separating all the things I love and all the things I can do, I began giving each one a purpose.
Because I had to accept something: I’m not an octopus. I can’t do everything at the same time. Sometimes I wish days had more than 24 hours so I could do everything I want. But setting priorities and creating a schedule allows me to do all these things.
Maybe not every day I can write or watch movies. Sometimes I have more work to do, or I have a gathering with friends. And there was a time when that really frustrated me. But I had to learn balance.
And in that balance, I also found my style.
I learned that all those pieces of me need their own space and time. Because we are the sum of the things we love.
So even when I feel overwhelmed seeing other people achieving their own thing or embracing their “style,” I take a deep breath and come back to this wheel.
Maybe I’m made of many pieces, and I wasn’t meant to embrace just one. I was made to embrace every single one of them.
To taste many worlds.
And many lives.
And maybe that’s exactly what makes people like us special.

II. Almost Ours (a lullaby)

We promised never to forget—
yet here I am,
forgetting your glances,
the ghost of your touch on my skin,
the conversations we folded into midnight.
I try to hold onto the fragments,
repeating them softly each day,
a prayer I’m too afraid to forget.
But memories slip, don’t they?
No matter how tightly we hold them,
we’re all just passing through—
names etched briefly
into the hearts of those we once loved.
Still, I like to believe that somewhere,
in another life,
we’ll meet again.
Maybe in a softer version of this world—
one untouched by the weight of what we couldn’t carry.
Where we laugh the laughs we missed,
and the shouting turns into kisses.
Where lonely nights become
long walks on the beach.
I hope the pain is gentler there.
No tears at ten in the morning.
No broken cups on the kitchen floor.
But even if that life never finds us…
I’d give everything
just to feel like I was yours again.
I’d wait a million years
if it meant I’d get to find you once more.
Because if loving you was a war,
I surrendered the moment you said my name.

III. Submarine Protocol (a lullaby)

The noise from outside was gone.
I was floating, adrift and alone.
My fingers wrinkled from the humidity.
The daylight was too white, too hazy,
too confused, too bright for my tired eyes.
So I let go.
My body, so weary, began to sink.
Scared in that moment, I wondered...
where do souls go when they get lost?
Mine... I think I lost mine a long time ago,
maybe the last time I saw you.
Or the last time we shared a laugh,
an honest one, not the ones we faked to pretend we were okay.
You were always too scared to stay,
and that made it harder to forgive, harder to breathe.
Time grew short between us,
while the distance stretched.
And everything vanished with you... everything.
And in that quiet aftermath, my heartbeat began to falter.
I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
So I stopped fighting.
Like you did.
I opened my eyes.
My lungs filled with air again,
but the air felt wrong.
It was thick, humid.
I wasn’t floating.
I was in my room, on my bed.
Still trapped in this cycle.
My hands cold.
My body soaked in sweat.
And all I could do was wait for it to happen again.

IV. Ghost Memories (a lullaby)

The texture of what they called sand
felt strange
it slipped between my fingers with every step.

The salty breeze clung to my face,
and cold water kissed my legs.

It was strange,
yet somehow…known.
I think that’s the word.

I moved clumsily,
trying to walk a little further.

It was odd,
getting used to a new body after losing your own
if I could even call this a body.

My hands began to glow softly,
as if they were trying to convince me I was still here.

But the truth settled heavy in my chest
if I even had one.

I was alone.
Entirely.

There was no one else in this place.
Just this small corner of eternity.
And the sky had already forgotten my name.

—

My glow began to reflect
more and more
in the water and foam.

I tried to see my face in the tide,
but there was nothing.
Just ripples.

I couldn’t even remember what I looked like.

I missed my features,
my smile…
my eyes.

Funny.
Now that I don’t have them,
I miss them
even though I spent so long hating them.

I let out a breath
if you could call it that.

Resignation.
Disappointment, maybe.
Or something close to it.

I sat down,
letting the sea soak
this glowing shell of mine.

I was in limbo.
Alone.

Glowing like never before…
but no one was watching.

No one ever did.

He decided to leave. To walk miles away from our flames. We were both burning alive, but the pain was electrifying. I became addicted to it. He did too.

There was a time when I still felt him close to my soul, as if we were connected by something older than language—something neither of us could understand.

Fear. Coldness. Rotten bones.

The world is cruel. It is not a place for lovers like us. They would scrub the floor with our blood and pray our desire burned in hell. It is not a place for us, and that is why he is gone. To save me from this death. To shield me from the demons that witnessed our love.

Night is stone-cold against my chest. I sleep wrapped in arms that are not his. I close my eyes and escape the nightmare, trying to reach him in my dreams, trying to reach his soul across this fragile dimension of space and time. But now everything is quiet. Too quiet. Like something sacred has gone missing.

That night felt distant. Hollow. I didn’t want to breathe anymore. I waited for my skin to turn pale blue and dissolve into stardust. My tears fell like endless rivers. The man lying next to me didn’t notice. He was numb to my sorrow.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the moon. Calling his name, because it is all I have left. My hands press against my chest as if I could physically hold my heart together. But the sun is merciless. It tears open the sky and drags me back to reality.

Fancy dresses. Diamonds resting on my collarbone. A bleeding heart beneath them.

Not even exquisite desserts flown in from distant lands can sweeten my life. I have been in pain since the day I began living without him. Punished to exist among disenchanted millionaires drunk on power and feverish fantasies about girls like me. The kind who bruise your body because possession feels like love. The kind who break your heart and drink your tears as if they were whiskey.

Sometimes I forget the sound of my own voice. Silenced for the comfort of daylight. For the illusion of peace at night. The only language spoken is his hands traveling over my thighs. Expensive gifts attempting to disguise the murder of my feelings. Nothing in me belongs to him. It all belongs to the man who left. To the memory of the soul that split from mine at creation.

And then one evening, when the sky was nearly black, he appeared.

Like a ghost. Like thunder splitting the earth.

At first, I didn’t believe it was him. His curls were longer. His clothes fit him better. He was broader, stronger. But none of that mattered. A wave of heat flooded my body. Anger settled into my bones. I wanted him gone for good.

Then his eyes collided with mine.

Years of memory detonated inside me.

I don’t remember how we ended up here. The cold sheets of my bed burned beneath us. Anger dissolved into lust. Sweat drops slid down my spine. Goosebumps rose along my skin. My body trembled in the cold air as he removed the last piece of cloth between us. My mind could barely comprehend what was happening. Even if it was a dream, it was enough to survive one more day.

His mouth traced a path from my neck downward my thighs, each kiss whispering apologies. Confessions. I miss you. But to me, it felt as though he had never left. As if we were simply remembering each other. Learning each other again. His name was a curse in my lips, like I was screaming for his soul to love me.

Wet fingertips, flames burning the room, hands intertwine.

He disappeared between my thighs, and I forgot my own name. My back arched in invitation. His fingers met the place where longing begins, and I was seconds from losing myself entirely. His name burned on my lips like a sacred curse, as though I were summoning his soul to fuse with mine.

This was not desire. It was resurrection.

I moved above him, our bodies finding a rhythm only we understood. I knew his body the way he knew mine—intimately, instinctively. Our breaths fractured between kisses and tightened hands. He reached for something beyond the sky, and I followed him star by star. His body arched deeper, as if searching for my heart—the center of everything. My hands clung to him as though I were dissolving into his skin.

The fire in the fireplace roared higher, fed by our heat. Flames licked the fallen sheets. The wooden floor creaked beneath us. The bed became a sanctuary, and we did not stop.

He moved behind me. His movements were desperate, final. As if he had waited a lifetime for this moment. As if fate had written it in smoke.

The curtains fell. The windows shattered. The room became a battlefield of crystals. Oxygen thinned. Black smoke wrapped around us while we kissed. He screamed my name, and when release claimed him, he held me as if I were the only solid thing left in a collapsing world.

We fell together, heart against heart, waiting for the fire to consume us. Our skins screamed in pain, but I felt nothing. I was finally with him again. Pain no longer spoke my language. Nothing could hurt more than losing him once.

He whispered something into my ear—words that translated into eternity. Into a life we never had. Our fingers intertwined one last time as the flames made us one. Blood. Heat. Ash.

The end, like we most known.

But for our souls, it was only the beginning.

Because now we were scattered into the universe—atoms waiting to collide again. Waiting to build a new life, a new story. A braver love. A fearless one. We were made of the same flesh, the same tears, the same cosmic dust.

His blue eyes—they were everywhere. In every dream, every thought, burning into me with a longing I could no longer touch. Desire, frustration, love—they all danced in his gaze, tormenting me, reminding me of everything I had lost. We had existed, once, in the same moment, in the same breath, but at a price so steep it left me hollow. Now, all I could do was dream of him. Ache for him.

I missed him—God, how I missed him. Every inch of him. His tattoos etched like stories across his back, his black hair darker than the endless night that loomed over me. There was no sun anymore, no light, no warmth—only the memory of his touch. Without him, the cold had claimed me.

And now, I was left counting the hours. One hundred seventy-eight. Each minute dragged like an eternity, like a blade slowly carving into what was left of me. I couldn’t sleep without him. Couldn’t breathe. The loneliness was unbearable, a void that even the city lights couldn’t fill.

Just a short poem inspired by an old painting I was working on. Sadly, I still haven’t finished the painting, but I hope to finish it one day.