I had been telling myself I was lonely.

Not lonely in the way people usually mean it.

I had friends.

Good ones.

People I liked. People I could laugh with. People I could sit beside during lunch and complain about work with.

But there was another kind of loneliness that friends couldn’t quite touch.

I missed being wanted by a man.

I missed having someone whose hand I could hold for no particular reason. Someone I could lean against. Someone who looked at me and made me feel like a woman instead of just another person standing in a train.

Technically, I was single.

Emotionally, it was more complicated than that.

And then there was N.

N was, objectively, the cutest in the company.

I wasn’t even trying to be dramatic about it.

He just was.

And, unfortunately, he was also nice.

That combination should be illegal.

The first time I really noticed how safe I felt around him was because of another man.

There was a new guy at work.

Cocky.

The kind of person who could make you uncomfortable without technically doing anything wrong.

I told N and some of the other colleagues about him.

Apparently, everyone already knew he was bad news.

Then one day, we were all on the same floor.

The guy looked at me.

Not a normal hello, colleague look.

A different one.

Something about it made my stomach drop.

I ran straight to N.

I grabbed his arm.

“He’s looking at me.”

Nash looked over.

Then, with the confidence of a man who had apparently never considered the possibility that some of us were not six feet tall, he told me to flip the guy off.

I stared at him.

“What can I do to a six-foot-tall man?”

He laughed.

Later, because I didn’t want to walk to the station alone, I asked N if he’d go to the smoking area with me after work.

I never asked him that before.

I didn’t even particularly want to smoke.

I just wanted someone beside me.

When we walked out of the building, the guy was outside.

The moment he saw me, he stood up.

Started walking toward us.

I froze.

My hand tightened around N’s arm.

I wanted to tell him to hold me back.

I didn’t.

I just held on tighter.

N didn’t have to do anything.

He could have gone to his station.

Instead, he walked me there.

Past his own.

That night, I remember thinking:

He’s a nice guy.

At the time, I didn’t think anything else.

Then came the small things.

He bought me lunch.

And coffee.

We sat together.

We talked.

He told me his grandmother had passed.

He showed me her picture.

He told me she had been especially fond of him.

There was something about that moment that stayed with me.

Perhaps because grief makes people vulnerable.

Or perhaps because he had trusted me enough to show me something that belonged to a part of his life I didn’t know.

I started noticing him.

Then I started looking for him.

And eventually, I started wondering if he was looking for me too.

That was when I knew I had a problem.

Because I was lonely.

And loneliness is a dangerous narrator.

It can take a smile and turn it into a confession.

A hand on your arm and turn it into desire.

A cup of coffee and turn it into courtship.

So I tried to be sensible.

Maybe N was just friendly.

Maybe this was how he was with everyone.

Maybe I was simply grateful to have someone around who made work feel less exhausting.

Then I started thinking about sleeping with him.

That was when sensible went completely out the window.

I didn’t want a relationship.

At least, I didn’t think I did.

I wanted something casual.

Something uncomplicated.

Someone I already knew.

Someone who wasn’t a stranger from the internet.

And N was right there.

Handsome.

Funny.

Kind.

Close.

It was an embarrassingly convenient fantasy.

I started imagining a date.

A movie.

Dinner.

Maybe drinks.

Maybe coming back to my apartment.

Maybe something more.

I had an entire screenplay in my head before I had even asked the man to watch a movie with me.

That should have been my first warning.

Then I actually asked him.

It happened at the smoking area.

We hadn’t seen each other all day.

I had been looking for him without admitting to myself that I was looking.

Then the elevator doors opened.

There he was.

We ended up at the smoking floor together.

We talked about training.

He told me about his trainer.

I hadn’t asked why I hadn’t seen him all day, but he explained anyway.

Then there was a pause.

He checked his phone.

And I thought:

Now.

“You said you didn’t watch The Odyssey, right?”

He nodded.

“I just learned how to make a movie reservation online.”

I tried to sound casual.

“Would you like to watch it with me next week?”

He didn’t immediately say yes.

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

My stomach dropped.

I laughed.

“Busy man.”

I pretended it didn’t matter.

Then he took another cigarette and announced that he was going to sit, saying he was standing the whole day.

“Okay, grandpa.”

I squatted in front of him.

We talked.

He told me about his mother.

His previous company.

His life.

When someone beside him got up, I immediately took the empty seat.

Beside him.

We kept talking.

Then, on the way to the station, he asked:

“Were you planning to watch the movie alone?”

I said yes.

I asked him if I’d been cocky for asking him out.

“No.”

That was enough to make me smile.

When we reached his station, I thought we were saying goodbye.

Instead, he said he’d walk me to my train station.

“Really?”

He laughed.

“I’m a nice guy, eh?”

“Yes. Such a nice guy.”

I rubbed his chest.

He laughed.

“Stop pushing me.”

At the escalator, I reached for his hand.

He let me hold it.

I asked when he’d tell me about next Friday.

“Tomorrow.”

I let go.

“Okay.”

And I walked away without looking back.

The next day, he spoke about the date first.

Not me, him.

We discovered I’d misread the dates.

The date had to be moved.

But it wasn’t cancelled.

It was simply moved.

To tomorrow.

I got frustrated and called him.

We ended up on FaceTime for an hour.

He missed four buses.

Four.

!!!

I couldn’t decide whether that was adorable or completely ridiculous.

Probably both.

During that call, we chose the cinema together.

A cinema with beanbag seats instead of normal chairs.

A three-hour movie.

I immediately started imagining us sitting close.

Maybe cuddling.

Maybe something more.

Then, after the call, we kept texting.

He sent me job openings because he remembered I wanted to try.

“Get home safe.”, I texted him.

He told me to sleep.

I told him I wasn’t tired.

“See you tomorrow”

I told him to get some rest before his run.

“You can do it!! Strong boiii.”

He called me a cheerleader.

I teased him about his name.

N.

A.

Whatever he was.

“I like Nash better than Ash.”

He laughed.

“Tqtqq.”

Then he told me he’d reached home.

And that was the end.

A completely ordinary conversation.

Except I kept thinking about it.

Then I found out he was leaving.

He was resigning.

And somehow, I was the only person at work who knew.

The strange thing was that I hadn’t asked him out because I knew he was leaving.

I didn’t even know.

I had already made the reservation.

Already chosen the cinema.

Already started imagining tomorrow.

Only afterward did I discover that the clock might be running faster than I thought.

And suddenly all those little future conversations felt different.

He had talked about taking me to try different kinds of food.

He showed me the station where he gets off.

The shops around it.

The places he remembered.

He told me about his childhood.

He showed me pieces of his life without me asking for them.

And I began wondering whether I was imagining the intimacy.

Maybe he was just friendly.

Maybe he was naturally open.

Maybe he talked like this with everyone.

Maybe the teasing was simply N.

Maybe the four missed buses meant nothing.

Maybe the job opening links meant nothing.

Maybe the “see you tomorrow” meant nothing.

Maybe the hand meant nothing.

Maybe the way he stayed beside me meant nothing.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

And that was the uncomfortable truth.

I didn’t know.

I still don’t.

I know I fancy him.

I know I enjoy talking to him.

I know I feel safe around him.

I know that when I didn’t see him for a whole day, I noticed.

I know that when he appeared in the elevator, I felt relieved.

I know that when he said he’d walk me to the station exit, I couldn’t hide how happy I was.

I know that when he held my hand, I didn’t want to let go.

But I don’t know what he feels.

And perhaps that’s where loneliness becomes dangerous.

Because when you’re lonely, ambiguity is unbearable.

You want certainty.

You want to know that the thing you’re feeling exists outside your own head.

You want to take every little moment and line them up like evidence.

He said this.

He did that.

He missed four buses.

He sent me those links.

He didn’t let go.

And maybe the evidence says something.

Or maybe it says nothing at all.

Perhaps he’s just nice.

Perhaps he likes me.

Perhaps he’s curious.

Perhaps he’s attracted to me.

Perhaps he’s simply enjoying having a new friend.

Tomorrow, I’ll find out a little more.

Not everything.

Just a little.

We’ll sit in our ridiculous beanbag chairs and watch a three-hour movie.

Maybe we’ll sit close.

Maybe we’ll laugh.

Maybe he’ll put his arm around me.

Maybe I’ll put my head on his shoulder.

Maybe we’ll hold hands.

Maybe we’ll kiss.

Maybe we’ll walk out afterward and talk about everything except the fact that we spent three hours practically sitting on top of each other.

Or maybe we’ll simply watch a movie.

And perhaps that’s okay too.

Because I don’t actually need to know the ending yet.

For once, I think I’d rather experience the story before deciding what genre it belongs to.

Maybe he’s just nice.

Maybe I’m just lonely.

Maybe there’s something between us.

Tomorrow, I get to find out.

And until then, I’m going to stop rereading our messages.

Probably.

Maybe.

Okay.

One more time.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book?

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Mona Vinyl

He told me I haven’t enjoyed my life enough.

I don’t know what he meant by that.

When people say “enjoy your life,” I think we all have a very different picture in our heads. Some people imagine a crowded bar at midnight. Some imagine travelling alone. Some imagine falling in love, having a hundred friends, saying yes to everything, collecting stories until they have enough of them to call a life.

I imagine something much quieter.

A good book.

A morning when I don’t have anywhere to be.

Writing something I’m actually proud of.

A meal with the few people I love.

Swimming when the world is still quiet.

And, perhaps embarrassingly, him.

I have never understood the obsession with having a lot of people around you. I don’t like clubs. I don’t enjoy forcing conversations with strangers. I don’t want to be friends with everyone I meet.

I have tried that life before.

I thought maybe that was what being young was supposed to look like—say yes, meet everyone, make friends everywhere, never close yourself off. I gave people access to me simply because they wanted it.

It did not end well.

Once is a mistake.

Do it enough times and it becomes a pattern.

I don’t want another pattern.

So I curate like the art major I am.

Maybe too curative. Sometimes fear disguises itself as discernment and I don’t notice.

But I know the people I have now. I know who I would pick up the phone for at three in the morning. I know who I trust. I know who has earned a place in my life.

I don’t want to keep adding people just to prove that my life is getting bigger.

I would rather make it deeper.

That might sound like I’m not moving forward.

But I don’t think so.

I think I am simply moving at my own pace.

There is a strange idea that growth has to be visible. You should be meeting new people, going new places, trying new things, becoming a different person every six months.

But I think growth is quieter than that.

Sometimes it is knowing what you don’t want anymore.

Sometimes it is refusing to repeat yourself.

Sometimes it is deciding that you don’t need to keep walking in a direction you never wanted to go in the first place.

I don’t know what my career will look like.

Or where I’ll be in five years.

I don’t even know if I’ll actually become the writer I keep telling people I want to be.

But I know I want to write.

I know I want a life that feels like mine.

And I don’t think I need to fill that life with people just because an empty chair makes it look incomplete.

Still, his sentence bothers me.

Because what if he was right?

Not about the clubs. Not about the friends.

What if I really haven’t enjoyed my life enough?

What if I have been so focused on getting somewhere that I forgot to notice where I already was?

There is a difference between being content and being alive.

There is also a difference between being alive and constantly seeking stimulation.

I don’t want to spend my life chasing experiences just so I can say I had them.

But I don’t want to become so careful that I stop experiencing anything at all.

That is the part I need to examine.

Not whether I need more friends.

Or whether I need to go out more.

Even if I need to become someone who says yes to everything.

But whether I am actually allowing myself to want things.

To be curious and make mistakes that aren’t the same mistakes I’ve already made.

To go somewhere simply because I want to see what is there.

To fall in love with something that has nothing to do with anyone else.

Perhaps enjoying your life is less about having more and more about being present enough to recognise what you already have.

And then..

There is him.

This is where the whole thing becomes inconvenient.

Because I can understand wanting to build a life outside of another person.

I can understand becoming independent.

I can understand needing to know who you are when nobody is holding your hand.

But what if I do all of that and still want him?

What if I build the career?

Write the books.

Make the money.

Travel.

Become more confident.

Become someone I am proud of.

Make exactly as many friends as I want.

Learn how to be alone.

And then, after all of that, I still want him beside me?

Would that mean I failed to enjoy my life?

Or would it simply mean that enjoying my life and wanting him were never mutually exclusive?

I don’t want someone to be the reason my life is worth living.

I want someone to be part of a life that is already worth living.

There is a difference.

Maybe that’s what I have been trying to understand.

Maybe he wasn’t telling me to become someone else.

Maybe he was telling me to go find more of myself.

I wish he had said that instead.

But he didn’t.

He just said I haven’t enjoyed my life enough.

And perhaps the only useful thing I can do with that sentence is stop asking him what it means and start asking myself.

What would I do if I stopped trying to live the life that looks right from the outside?

Who would I keep?

Where would I go?

What would I write?

What would I want if nobody were watching?

I don’t think the answer is a hundred friends.

It definitely isn’t a club at two in the morning.

It might not even be something particularly exciting.

It is a small apartment, a career I care about, a few people I trust, enough time to write, somewhere new every once in a while, and the freedom to decide what happens next.

Or maybe it is him.

Maybe it isn’t.

I don’t know yet.

I’m looking forward to the day that I'll finally be okay with not knowing.

Perhaps enjoying your life isn’t about reaching some imaginary point where you’ve finally done enough.

Maybe it is simply being able to look at the life you’re living and recognise it as your own.

I have to agree that I haven’t figured that out yet.

But I think I would rather spend my time finding out what enough means to me than spending it trying to prove that I am enjoying my life correctly.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book?

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Mona Vinyl

Mona is the kind of person who can fall in love with a life before she has lived it.

She can imagine a future so vividly that, for a moment, it feels less like a possibility and more like a memory from a life she has somehow already lived. She can picture the places she might go, the things she might create, the person she might become. She does not simply dream about the future; she gives it texture. She gives it a mood, a colour, a soundtrack. She gives it a version of herself who has already arrived.

That is one of the beautiful things about Mona.

It is also one of the things that makes her unhappy.

Because reality is rarely as beautiful as imagination.

The future she dreams about contains none of the tedious parts of getting there. There are no disappointing mornings, unanswered messages, awkward beginnings, wrong decisions, long periods of uncertainty, or ordinary Tuesdays where nothing particularly meaningful happens. There is only the finished picture.

And sometimes Mona becomes so enamoured with that picture that the life she is actually living feels strangely small beside it.

She forgets that every beautiful life eventually becomes ordinary. The dream apartment will still need cleaning. The dream career will still have terrible days. The new city will still have lonely nights. The person she has spent years trying to become will still wake up tired and unsure of herself.

Mona is often in love with the destination before she has learned to love the road.

She is also terribly hard on herself.

Mona does not merely want to do well. She wants to become someone she can admire. Someone accomplished, capable, interesting, meaningful. Someone whose life feels worthy of the potential she believes she possesses.

The problem is that she has never been particularly generous toward the person who is still becoming that woman.

She looks at herself and sees the distance between who she is and who she thinks she could be. What she forgets to notice is the distance she has already travelled.

She is always moving the finish line.

One thing accomplished becomes the beginning of another expectation. One version of herself becomes obsolete the moment she imagines a better one. Even her successes sometimes arrive with an expiration date, because somewhere in the back of her mind there is already a quieter, more impressive version of herself waiting to replace them.

Mona has a strange relationship with potential.

She is grateful for it, because it gives her something to reach toward.

She is also haunted by it, because every possibility feels like something she could be failing to become.

And then there is the fact that Mona feels everything too deeply.

She has never been particularly good at letting things simply happen and then disappear.

An event becomes a thought. The thought becomes a question. The question becomes an investigation.

She replays conversations. She examines people’s words. She notices changes in tone, pauses, contradictions, details that most people would have forgotten five minutes later. When something hurts her, she does not merely feel the hurt. She wants to understand it.

Why did it happen?

What did it mean?

What did she miss?

What does it say about her?

Her mind is constantly searching for the hidden explanation beneath the obvious one.

It is part of what makes her creative. Mona notices things. She sees connections. She finds meaning in places other people might walk past without looking twice. She can turn a small experience into a story because she understands that the smallest things are rarely only the smallest things.

But there is a price for seeing everything.

Sometimes she cannot stop seeing it.

She carries moments longer than she needs to. She revisits things that are already over, as if there might be some final piece of information hidden inside them that will make the ending easier to accept.

Mona does not know how to experience something without analysing it.

She does not know how to want something without imagining what it could become.

And she does not know how to look at herself without asking whether she could be better.

That is probably the closest thing she has to a defining contradiction.

Mona has a poet’s heart with a critic’s mind.

The poet in her is always imagining another life.

The critic is always asking why she is not living it yet.

And somewhere between those two voices is Mona herself—walking forward, dissatisfied with how far she has come and unable to stop dreaming about how much farther she could go.

Perhaps that is her greatest flaw.

She is so preoccupied with becoming that she sometimes forgets to be.

But perhaps, too, that is what makes her story worth telling.

Because Mona is not finished.

And she has never really been the kind of person who was meant to be.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book?

I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona Vinyl

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being able to imagine too many versions of yourself.

Not because you lack direction.

But because you can see too many directions at once.

You can see the person you could become if you devoted yourself entirely to writing. The person who moves across the world and collects stories from unfamiliar cities. The artist who spends years refining a craft until something beautiful finally exists because of them. The person who starts over somewhere new and builds a life that feels like it belongs only to them.

The problem is not the absence of dreams.

The problem is having too many of them.

Some people fear they will never find themselves. But there is another kind of person who suffers from the opposite problem: they can imagine too many selves waiting inside them, and every choice feels like a small funeral for the others.

Because choosing one path means leaving another behind.

When you decide to become a writer, you wonder about the life you could have lived as something else. When you move to a new country, you think about the version of yourself who stayed. When you close one chapter of your life, you can’t help but wonder about the person you might have been if you had turned the page differently.

It is strange how we mourn people who never existed.

We grieve the imaginary versions of ourselves who only lived in possibilities.

Maybe that is why some of us struggle to feel satisfied. We are not only comparing ourselves to who we were yesterday. We are comparing ourselves to every version of ourselves we have ever imagined becoming.

The successful writer.
The fearless traveler.
The person who figured everything out earlier.
The person who made all the right choices.

And no matter how much we accomplish, there is always another version standing somewhere in the distance, looking back at us.

A version who woke up earlier.
Worked harder.
Took more chances.
Became more.

The cruel part is that this imagination can make the present feel smaller than it actually is.

You can be standing in the middle of a life you once begged for, and still feel like you are behind.

You can achieve something meaningful and immediately think about what comes next.

You can finally arrive somewhere new and already start wondering where you should go after.

But maybe the problem is not that we are incapable of being happy.

Maybe we have simply mistaken becoming for arriving.

We treat life like a project that will eventually be completed. We imagine there is a final version of ourselves waiting at the end—the perfect, polished, finished masterpiece.

But perhaps that person does not exist.

Perhaps we are not unfinished because something is missing.

Perhaps we are unfinished because we are alive.

A painting is not beautiful because it is perfect. It is beautiful because every layer tells the story of how it became what it is. The colours that were added. The mistakes that were painted over. The unexpected details that appeared along the way.

Maybe people are the same.

Maybe the goal was never to become one final version of ourselves.

Maybe the goal is to keep creating.

The same restlessness that makes us feel lost is often the same force that makes us grow. The desire for something more is what pushes us to write the story we have been carrying inside us. It is what makes us leave places that no longer fit. It is what makes us rebuild after everything falls apart.

The curse and the gift are the same thing.

To see endless possibilities means you will always know there is more.

More to learn.
More to create.
More to experience.
More to become.

But perhaps there is something beautiful about never feeling completely finished.

A masterpiece is not only the final image hanging on the wall.

It is also the artist who keeps returning to the canvas.

Adding another brushstroke.

Changing the colours.

Discovering something new.

Maybe we are all unfinished masterpieces.

And maybe that is not a flaw.

Maybe that is the entire point.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book?

I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona Vinyl

I can’t tell who’s waving at me unless they are right in front of me. Whenever people ask why I don’t wear glasses or contact lenses, wondering how I’m not bothered by not being able to see clearly, I simply answer:

“Sometimes, the world is more beautiful when it’s blurry.”

They laugh.

They think I’m joking.

I’m not.

I really do think the world is more beautiful when it’s a little blurry.

When we don’t see every tiny detail, the edges soften. The imperfections disappear. Everything feels a little gentler.

Of course, there are times when clarity is necessary.

When I need to clean my house.

When I need to find something I’ve lost.

Or when there is a bug somewhere.

(I’m terrified of bugs. I once didn’t go back to my house until my dad came and got that bug. T’was a ladybug.)

But most of the time, I don’t mind not seeing everything clearly.

And I think that’s exactly why I feel the same way about the lighting in my house.

Almost everyone I know likes having the big lights on.

I know why they do.

It’s because they can see everything clearly.

They can see what’s tidy and what’s not tidy.

They can see the little messes.

The dust hiding in corners.

The things that need to be cleaned.

The big lights are practical.

But sometimes, I think they make us notice too much.

Even though I keep my house as clean as possible, the big lights make the space feel different.

It stops feeling like a place where I can relax.

It feels like a place that is constantly showing me something I need to fix.

One thing needs cleaning.

Another needs organising.

Something else needs attention.

I can’t remember exactly when I stopped using the big lights, but I remember why.

I watched a documentary about how lighting affects your mood, your emotions, and how aesthetically pleasing it looks when you only use small lights.

After that, I switched off my ceiling light and turned on a small lamp instead.

I never really went back.

Well... unless I have to deep clean.

Or if there is a bug and I lose sight of it.

Then suddenly, every single light in the house needs to be on.

The rest of the time, though, I choose the small lights.

Not because they hide the imperfections.

But because they change the feeling of being home.

The room feels warmer.

Quieter.

More peaceful.

Reading feels more inviting.

Making tea feels like a small moment instead of another thing to do.

Even ordinary evenings feel different.

And I think that’s something we often underestimate.

Our surroundings are constantly affecting us.

The music we listen to.

The scent of our home.

The chair we sit in.

The lighting we come home to after a long day.

These things don’t magically change our lives.

But they change how we experience them.

I think this is what people mean when they talk about romanticising your life.

It’s not pretending everything is perfect.

It’s not ignoring reality.

It’s simply choosing to make ordinary moments feel a little more special.

A warm cup of tea.

A book waiting for you.

Music playing while you cook dinner.

A small lamp glowing in the corner of your room.

Life is mostly made up of ordinary moments.

The quiet evenings.

The slow mornings.

The little routines nobody else sees.

And maybe we don’t need every single one of those moments to be lived under the brightest light possible.

Sometimes, seeing every flaw doesn’t make us appreciate things more.

Sometimes, it just makes us focus on what is missing.

Softening the light doesn’t mean avoiding reality.

It means giving yourself permission to experience life a little more gently.

The world is still the same.

Your home is still the same.

You are still the same.

But somehow, everything feels a little warmer.

Because sometimes, the world really is more beautiful when it’s a little blurry.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book?

I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona Vinyl

What Calypso Taught Me About the Way I Used to Love

When people talk about Calypso, they usually talk about Odysseus.

The man stranded on an island.

The hero desperate to return home.

The husband longing for Penelope.

The father trying to get back to Telemachus.

Calypso is often reduced to the obstacle in his journey—a goddess who delayed his return.

But I’ve always found myself wondering about her instead.

Not because I believe she was right, nor because I think her actions should be romanticized, but because somewhere beneath the mythology, I recognize something painfully familiar.

There is no single version of Calypso’s story.

In Homer’s *Odyssey*, she keeps Odysseus on her island for years, offering him immortality if he stays. When the gods command her to let him go, she has no choice but to watch him leave.

Some later retellings go further, claiming that after Odysseus sailed back to Ithaca to reunite with his wife Penelope and their son Telemachus, Calypso was so consumed by grief that she took her own life.

Other interpretations move in the opposite direction, portraying her as someone who never truly loved him romantically at all, but simply fulfilled her role in the story.

Whether either version is true isn’t really the point.

However differently her story is told, I recognize pieces of myself in every version of her.

Not the captivity.

Not the inability to let someone choose for themselves.

But the desperate belief that if you love someone completely enough, they might one day love you back.

I used to think love was something that could be earned.

If I was patient enough...

If I forgave enough...

If I gave enough pieces of myself away...

If I became the safest place they had ever known...

Surely they would choose me.

Surely love would become inevitable.

Looking back, I don’t think I was trying to manipulate anyone.

I was simply loving the only way I knew how.

We rarely invent the way we love.

We inherit it.

From our families.

From childhood.

From the relationships that shaped us before we were old enough to recognize the patterns.

Some people learn that love is steady.

Others learn that love must be earned.

Some learn that love arrives only after sacrifice.

I belonged to the last group.

I believed devotion was proof of love.

That the more I gave, the more valuable I became.

That if I could make myself indispensable, I would never be abandoned.

It sounds romantic when you’re living it.

It feels devastating when you finally realize it doesn’t work.

Because love has one condition that no amount of effort can replace:

It has to be freely chosen.

No amount of kindness can persuade someone into loving you.

No amount of sacrifice can make another person feel what they don’t.

You cannot negotiate your way into someone’s heart through generosity.

That doesn’t mean your love wasn’t real.

It means love isn’t measured by how much of yourself you’re willing to lose.

That’s why Calypso stays with me.

Not because I admire everything she did.

I don’t.

Love that ignores another person’s freedom is not the kind of love I want to defend.

But I understand the fear beneath it.

The quiet hope that if someone stayed just a little longer, if they saw just a little more of what you had to offer, maybe they would finally choose you.

I’ve known that hope.

I’ve mistaken self-sacrifice for intimacy.

I’ve believed that if I poured enough love into someone, eventually it would find its way back to me.

Sometimes it did.

Sometimes it didn’t.

The hardest lesson wasn’t learning that people leave.

It was learning that love cannot be built on the expectation that someone will reward your devotion.

Today, I love differently.

Or at least, I try to.

Not by giving until there’s nothing left of me, but by remembering that love should never require me to disappear.

Maybe that’s why Calypso still lingers in my mind.

Not because she reminds me of who I want to become.

But because she reminds me of who I used to be.

And sometimes, mythology isn’t memorable because it tells us about gods.

It’s memorable because, thousands of years later, we still find ourselves inside their stories.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book? I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona Vinyl

After writing about book playlists and reading routines, I found myself thinking about another assumption many of us rarely question: the idea that silence is the ideal environment for focus.

For years, study advice has recommended quiet rooms, empty desks, and complete silence. Yet some of my most focused reading and studying has happened in cafés, libraries filled with soft chatter, or while listening to ambient sounds in the background.

It made me wonder whether silence is truly the gold standard—or whether what many of us are looking for is atmosphere.

The Difference Between Noise and Atmosphere

When people hear that some students focus better in slightly noisy environments, they often imagine distractions: conversations, television, construction work, or loud music.

But there is an important distinction between noise and atmosphere.

Noise competes for your attention. It contains information that your brain feels compelled to process. A nearby conversation, for example, is difficult to ignore because your brain naturally tries to follow the words being spoken.

Atmosphere, on the other hand, creates a sense of place without demanding your attention. The soft hum of a café, distant rainfall, the rustling of pages in a library, or gentle instrumental music can provide stimulation without constantly pulling your focus away from your task.

The difference is simple:

If you find yourself listening to the sound, it is probably noise.

If the sound fades into the background after a few minutes, it is probably atmosphere.

Why Silence Doesn’t Work for Everyone

Many of us assume that struggling to focus in silence means we lack discipline.

In reality, the issue may be that silence provides too little stimulation.

Imagine sitting alone in a perfectly quiet room. For some people, this creates ideal conditions for concentration. For others, the absence of stimulation allows the mind to wander. Thoughts drift toward tomorrow’s plans, unfinished tasks, random memories, or anything else that feels more interesting than the work in front of them.

A moderate level of background stimulation can sometimes help anchor attention by giving the brain just enough sensory input to stay engaged.

This may explain why some people work better in cafés than in silent rooms.

The environment keeps part of the brain occupied, making it easier to remain present with the task at hand.

How to Find Your Ideal Study Atmosphere

Rather than assuming silence is best, consider experimenting with different environments.

1. Pay Attention to Your Most Focused Moments

Think back to times when you were genuinely absorbed in reading, studying, or writing.

Where were you?

Were you at home? In a library? At a café? Was there music playing? Were other people nearby?

Sometimes our best environment is one we have already experienced without consciously noticing.

2. Experiment With Different Types of Sound

Not all sounds affect us in the same way.

You might try:

• Café ambience

• Rain sounds

• Library ambience

• Instrumental music

• Classical music

• White, pink, or brown noise

Give each environment several study sessions before deciding whether it works for you.

3. Match the Environment to the Task

Different tasks require different levels of concentration.

For creative work, brainstorming, journaling, or reading for pleasure, a more atmospheric environment may be beneficial.

For memorisation, difficult problem-solving, or learning entirely new concepts, you may find that a quieter environment works better.

The goal is not to find one perfect setting for everything.

The goal is to build a collection of environments that support different kinds of work.

4. Focus on Comfort, Not Perfection

Many people spend more time creating the “perfect” study setup than actually studying.

The perfect desk, the perfect chair, the perfect lighting, the perfect playlist.

In reality, focus often comes from feeling comfortable enough to begin.

A slightly noisy café, a favourite corner of the library, or a familiar playlist may do more for your concentration than chasing an idealised version of productivity.

Creating Conditions for Focus

Perhaps the most useful lesson is that concentration is not always something we force.

Sometimes it is something we invite.

Just as reading routines become easier when we make reading enjoyable, studying often becomes easier when we create an environment that supports our attention rather than fighting against it.

Instead of asking, “How can I force myself to focus?”

Try asking:

“What kind of atmosphere helps me focus naturally?”

The answer may not be silence.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book? I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona Vinyl

I have a confession that tends to surprise people.

I don’t read romance.

Hate them.

Instead, I read horror.

Thrillers. Crime. Psychological horror. Cosmic horror. Occult. The darker the better.

Whenever someone finds out, the question is almost always the same.

“Why would you want to read something so dark?”

The answer is simple.

Because that’s where people stop pretending.

When characters are placed in ordinary situations, they can perform. They can say the right things. They can maintain their carefully constructed identities.

Throw them into a haunted town, a serial killer investigation, or an impossible cosmic nightmare, however, and all of that falls away.

That’s what I like to read.

Fear strips people down.

Someone who has acted brave for three hundred pages suddenly admits they’re terrified.

The selfish one sacrifices themselves without thinking.

The quiet one becomes the leader.

The loudest one breaks first.

The emotions become raw, immediate, almost impossible to fake.

One of the best examples of this, for me, is It by Stephen King.

At first glance, it’s a novel about an ancient monster haunting a small town. But underneath the horror, it’s really about friendship, trauma, childhood, fear, and the people we become when we’re forced to confront the things we’ve spent years trying to bury.

Characters who spend chapters irritating one another suddenly become willing to die for each other.

Others who appear fearless reveal just how fragile they really are.

The monster is terrifying.

But the people are even more interesting.

H.P. Lovecraft does something slightly different.

His stories are often less about the characters themselves and more about what happens to the reader.

Lovecraft famously wrote,

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

I think that’s exactly why his stories work.

Not because he describes everything in terrifying detail.

Quite the opposite.

He leaves just enough unsaid that your own imagination starts filling in the blanks.

Your own mind becomes the special effects department.

While reading, I don’t feel like an observer.

I become another victim.

I’m suddenly in the abandoned house.

I’m hearing the footsteps.

I’m opening the basement door that absolutely should have stayed closed.

Somehow I convince myself I would survive.

(I wouldn’t.)

That’s the fun of horror.

It lets me experience situations I sincerely hope I’ll never experience in real life.

That is... if I’m the victim.

And that brings me to Romance.

Ironically, I’m probably one of the biggest hopeless romantics you’ll ever meet.

I romanticise rainy mornings.

Late-night convenience store runs.

Train stations.

The way the sunlight hits someone’s face through a café window.

Entire conversations that never happened.

And yet I can never seem to enjoy romance novels.

Not even the classics.

Yearning, however, is a different story.

(Word pun absolutely intended.)

As a professional yearner myself, I do find myself gravitating towards stories where one person quietly longs for another. The kind where everything is left unsaid. Where the tension lives in stolen glances rather than grand declarations.

Yearning feels human.

It’s awkward.

Messy.

Unfinished.

It leaves room for every possibility, which is exactly what makes it hurt.

Maybe that’s why I love yearning and horror more than romance.

Both live in uncertainty.

One wonders whether the characters will survive.

The other wonders whether they’ll ever confess.

The unknown keeps me turning pages.

Certainty rarely does.

The traditional lovey-dovey, hearts-going-ba-dump kind of books, however, often loses me.

They often feel too polished, too perfect, too aware that they’re trying to be romantic.

The inevitable happy endings somehow feels manufactured.

Almost like it’s trying too hard to convince me that this is what love looks like.

Whenever I read one, I catch myself thinking,

“I could make my own life more romantic than this.”

I don’t need fiction to teach me romance.

I already know how to romanticise ordinary life.

A rainy afternoon.

A train ride with nowhere urgent to be.

Reading in a café until it closes.

Walking home with the same song on repeat because it reminds me of someone.

Life gives me enough opportunities to fall in love with the ordinary.

That kind of romance already exists.

I don’t need fiction to borrow it.

Horror, on the other hand, gives me something reality hopefully never will.

The chances of me stumbling across an ancient cosmic entity, solving a gruesome murder, or being chased through a haunted hotel are, thankfully, pretty low.

And I’d like to keep it that way.

Maybe that’s what our bookshelves reveal.

Not necessarily our personalities.

But the emotions we’re trying to borrow.

Some people want comfort.

Some want hope.

Some want to fall in love a hundred different ways.

Others want to feel terror from the safety of a warm blanket.

We’re all chasing feelings.

We’re just choosing different worlds in which to experience them.

And after a few hundred pages, I close the book, turn off the light, and spend the next ten minutes convincing myself that strange noise in the hallway was definitely just the wind.

Probably.

So perhaps the better question isn’t,

“What kind of books do you read?”

It’s,

“What emotions are you borrowing from fiction because life doesn’t give them to you?”

I think the answer tells you far more than any genre ever could.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book? I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona Vinyl

It has happened to almost everyone.

You finish a novel and can’t pick up another one for weeks because nothing feels quite right. A television series ends, and for days you keep thinking about the characters as if they’re people you’ve actually known. You replay conversations that never happened, mourn deaths that never occurred, and somehow feel homesick for places that don’t even exist.

From the outside, it sounds irrational.

How can we miss someone who was never alive?

But perhaps that’s the wrong question.

A better one might be:

Why does the human brain treat fictional people as emotionally significant in the first place?

The answer has less to do with fiction and much more to do with how we experience ourselves.

Our brains don’t separate emotion from reality as much as we think.

When psychologists talk about stories, they often describe something called narrative transportation—the process of becoming so immersed in a story that our minds begin responding to it as though we’re experiencing parts of it ourselves.

This is why your heart races during a suspenseful scene even though you’re sitting safely on your couch.

It’s why people cry over fictional deaths.

It’s why your chest feels lighter when a character finally finds happiness.

Your brain knows the story isn’t real.

Your emotions don’t particularly care.

Our emotional systems evolved to respond to experiences, relationships, facial expressions, conflict, and empathy—not to constantly ask whether the source technically exists.

If something makes you feel understood, your brain processes that understanding.

If something breaks your heart, your body still responds with grief.

Reality matters less than emotional experience.

We don’t just relate to characters.

We project ourselves onto them.

One of the oldest ideas in psychology is projection—the tendency to place parts of ourselves onto someone else.

Usually we think of projection negatively.

But fiction reveals another side of it.

A fictional character begins as someone written by an author.

The moment we start reading, however, we begin filling in the gaps ourselves.

We imagine the tone of their voice.

We assign meanings to their silence.

We interpret their choices through our own experiences.

Two people can read the exact same novel and walk away believing they know completely different versions of the same character.

That’s because every reader quietly contributes themselves to the story.

The character becomes a collaboration between the author’s imagination and our own.

In a way, every fictional character is partly us.

Sometimes we see ourselves.

Sometimes we see who we wish we could become.

People often assume our favorite characters resemble our personalities.

Sometimes they do.

The anxious reader finds comfort in the anxious protagonist.

The perfectionist recognizes another perfectionist.

The lonely person immediately notices the lonely character.

Recognition creates attachment.

Someone finally understands what it feels like to be us.

But just as often, our favorite characters represent our aspirations rather than our identities.

The person who always speaks their mind.

The woman who walks away from relationships that no longer serve her.

The man who remains kind despite being hurt.

The friend who never abandons people.

These characters become psychological possibilities.

They allow us to rehearse different versions of ourselves.

Long before we become brave in real life, we experience bravery through them.

The characters we love often reveal our emotional needs.

Perhaps the most interesting explanation isn’t projection.

It’s lack.

Every person carries emotional absences.

Some people lacked safety.

Others lacked affection.

Some never felt chosen.

Others spent years feeling invisible.

Our favorite fictional characters often settle exactly where those absences exist.

Someone who grew up feeling misunderstood may become deeply attached to characters who are finally accepted for who they are.

Someone who never experienced emotional security might find themselves repeatedly drawn to loyal friendships in fiction.

Someone who has difficulty expressing vulnerability may admire characters who cry openly without shame.

This isn’t coincidence.

It’s compensation.

Stories quietly offer emotional experiences that reality couldn’t.

Not permanently.

Not completely.

But enough for us to imagine what those experiences might feel like.

Fiction gives our emotions something reality often doesn’t.

Structure.

Real life is frustrating because it rarely explains itself.

People leave without closure.

Apologies never come.

Questions remain unanswered.

Good people suffer.

Cruel people succeed.

Life has no obligation to resolve its loose ends.

Stories do.

Even tragic endings usually possess meaning.

Pain serves a purpose.

Growth follows conflict.

Loss transforms someone.

Narratives satisfy something our minds naturally seek: coherence.

Psychologists have long argued that human beings are meaning-making creatures.

We don’t simply experience events.

We constantly try to organize them into stories that explain who we are and why things happened.

Fiction provides that organization beautifully.

Perhaps that’s why it feels strangely comforting.

We also remember who we were when we met them.

Think about your favorite fictional character.

Now think about the season of life you were living through when you first encountered them.

The two memories are probably inseparable.

The book becomes intertwined with the heartbreak.

The film with the summer you couldn’t sleep.

The television series with the city you had just moved to.

Years later, we don’t merely revisit the story.

We revisit ourselves.

The character becomes a bookmark in our own lives.

They remind us not only of who they were, but of who we were becoming.

Maybe fictional characters were never meant to replace real people.

Sometimes people dismiss emotional attachment to fictional characters as childish or unhealthy.

I don’t think that’s fair.

Stories have always existed because human beings need them.

Long before psychology gave names to projection, attachment, or emotional regulation, people gathered around fires to tell stories.

Not because the stories were true.

Because the emotions inside them were.

A fictional character cannot love us back.

They cannot comfort us.

They cannot change our lives by existing.

But they can change how we understand ourselves.

Sometimes they articulate emotions we’ve spent years trying to name.

Sometimes they lend us courage until we can produce our own.

Sometimes they simply sit beside us during lonely seasons, asking for nothing except that we keep turning the page.

People often remind us that fictional characters aren’t real.

They’re right.

The characters aren’t.

But the parts of ourselves they awaken certainly are.

Perhaps we were never grieving someone who didn’t exist.

Perhaps we were grieving the realization that, somewhere between the first page and the last, someone imaginary managed to understand something profoundly real about us.

For a long time, I genuinely believed the people I loved would be happier without me.

Not immediately, of course. They would cry. They would grieve. But eventually, I convinced myself they would recover. They would move on. And maybe life would become a little lighter without the burden of having to worry about me.

That was the lie depression whispered so convincingly that I mistook it for reason.

So every time I found myself in that darkness, my conclusion was always the same: I should just disappear.

I spent years believing there was only one solution. I attempted to leave this world more than once. Every time I failed, I would tell myself it simply wasn’t the right moment. Looking back now, it almost feels like fate kept interrupting me.

Whenever I reached that point, someone would call.

Or someone would show up.

Almost as if they somehow knew.

To this day, I don’t know if it was coincidence, timing, or something beyond my understanding. All I know is that I am still here.

For years, I never told anyone about this, especially my younger brother.

There wasn’t some dramatic family meeting. No crisis brought us to the conversation. No news story suddenly gave me the courage to speak.

One day, during our lunch date, I just said it.

“I tried to kill myself before.”

Then, casually having another bite of the lamb,

“I tried several times.”

I told him that none of those attempts worked. I told him that now I no longer wanted to die. Not because life had suddenly become perfect, but because there was one thought I couldn’t bear.

Even in death, I didn’t want to make him sad.

“I’ll live,” I told him.

“For you.”

His reaction wasn’t dramatic.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask a hundred questions.

He simply looked me in the eyes and said he had always known I wasn’t doing well. He had always been worried about me.

And then he said he was glad I had decided not to try again.

That was all.

Somehow, it was enough.

It’s strange.

When I look at him, I still see the little three-year-old boy who could never make a proper peace sign no matter how many times we tried to teach him. That’s the version of him my heart still carries.

But somewhere along the way, he grew up.

Now he’s old enough to buy his own drinks. He’s in university. He has an adorable girlfriend, whom I’m finally meeting next week. Sometimes, when he talks to me, it feels less like I’m speaking to my younger brother and more like I’m speaking to an older one.

Years ago, a fortune teller told me that my brother—five years younger than me—would become the person who would change the course of my life. At the time, it sounded ridiculous.

Now, it feels strangely true.

I don’t know how much faith I place in destiny.

But when I look back at my life, I find it difficult to dismiss.

Maybe fate didn’t save me.

Maybe my little brother did.

He probably doesn’t even realize it.

To him, it was just another conversation over lunch.

To me, it became a promise.

That I would stay.

And that as long as he is in this world, I’ll do my best to remain in it too.

I don’t know if this was the right thing to do.

Maybe years from now I’ll finally have an answer. Maybe I never will.

All I know is that I couldn’t say, “Happy birthday. I love you.”

Not because I didn’t love you.

But because it wouldn’t have meant only that.

It would’ve meant, I love you... but I’m sorry.

Congratulations... but this will be the last time we’ll be celebrating your birthday together.

And that felt crueler than saying goodbye before your birthday ever could.

Ever since that day you looked at me and said we needed to talk about our relationship, only to pretend those words had never left your mouth, something inside me never settled again. I kept thinking about us. Every day. Every night. Turning us over in my head until there was nothing left to turn.

The more I thought, the more certain I became.

This wasn’t a healthy love.

From the outside, we looked like the couple people secretly wished they were. We looked good together. The kind of height difference people smile at. We matched effortlessly. You worked for a multinational company. I was still a university student, trying to build my own future.

If someone had taken a picture of us, they would’ve thought we were happy.

Maybe we were.

Sometimes.

Our relationship was somehow the sweetest and the most toxic thing I’ve ever known.

We never ran out of things to say. Conversations flowed as though we’d known each other our whole lives. You texted me while you were working. You called just because you wanted to hear my voice. Every morning began with your “Good morning, baby” and every night ended with your “Good night, baby”

When we met, you wrapped your arms around me as though months had passed instead of days. You lifted me into the air, spun me around, and for a little while, the world became gentle.

Those moments were real.

Every single one of them.

But they only lasted until your darkness returned.

Then you became someone I barely recognized.

Your voice changed.

Your words became sharp.

You swore.

You cursed.

You hit your own head.

You hit your legs.

You hit whatever happened to be around you.

And every time I watched, I wondered when I would stop being the one standing beside the storm and become the thing the storm struck instead.

Maybe that day would’ve never come.

But I lived as though it could.

When your moods swallowed you whole, you disappeared with them. Your phone died. My calls went unanswered. My messages sat unread. I couldn’t reach you, no matter how desperately I tried.

Silence became another person in our relationship.

An unwelcome guest that arrived without warning and never told me when it would leave.

I tried so hard to love every part of you.

I tried to forget the person I loved before you.

I tried to believe that love could overcome fear.

But every time your anger arrived, I found myself walking on ice so thin it felt no thicker than a waffle—carefully choosing every word, every expression, every silence, terrified that one wrong step would make everything shatter beneath me.

Maybe my standards for love are too high.

But I don’t think wanting to feel safe in the arms of the person who loves you is asking for too much.

So I said goodbye.

Not because I stopped loving you.

Because I had finally started loving myself enough to leave.

Ironically, that decision hurts more than I ever imagined.

The books never prepared me for this.

The films always made it seem as though the one who leaves walks away lighter, while the one left behind carries all the grief.

So why does my chest ache like this?

Why do I feel as though I’ve buried someone who is still alive?

For what might seem like a short time to others—but felt like a lifetime to me—you brought me more tears than I thought one person ever could. I lived with anxiety. I questioned myself. I lost pieces of who I was trying to keep us together.

So why is my heart breaking now?

This isn’t relief.

It’s guilt.

Tomorrow is your birthday.

No matter how old we become, birthdays still carry a little hope. A quiet excitement. The wish that someone will make the day feel special.

Instead, I became the person who placed a goodbye in your hands.

In your story, I am the villain.

I’m the person who wasted your precious time.

The person who accepted your love only to leave.

The person you’ll tell your friends about with bitterness.

If that’s what you need to heal, then hate me.

Curse me.

Tell the world how awful I was.

I won’t stop you.

Because I know I hurt you.

And I’m deeply sorry.

I really did try to love every part of you.

The future I imagined with you was real.

Every “I love you” I whispered while you held me close was real.

Every kiss.

Every embrace.

Every promise I believed we could keep.

They were all real.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t the person you deserved.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t save us.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you.

But most of all, I’m sorry that loving you eventually meant losing myself.

If one of us had to carry this pain, I’d rather it be me.

So cry for a little while.

Be angry.

Hate me if you must.

But don’t stay there forever.

Please don’t let my absence become another wound you spend your whole life carrying.

I’ll carry enough guilt for the both of us.

My only wish is that one day you’ll stand back up, look toward the sun again, and discover a happiness that no longer has my name attached to it.

I am less than a month away from my birthday, and I feel disappointed in who I am.

I feel like I wasted the last ten years.

I’ve done nothing of note.

The strange thing is that I know that’s not entirely true. I’ve achieved many things, yet they all feel like nothing. I have traveled to many places, collected certificates, licenses, qualifications, and experiences. I could make a list of everything I worked for over the past decade, and I guarantee it would be long.

But where am I now?

Nowhere.

The things I studied for, the things I worked for—am I even working in those fields? No.

I know those achievements matter. They matter to me, at least. I like learning. I like being educated. I like having proof that I dedicated myself to something and saw it through.

But at what cost?

No one is going to recognize most of it.

None of it guarantees a higher-paying job. None of it guarantees a healthier relationship. None of it guarantees happiness.

Sometimes self-improvement feels like another form of consumerism.

One more certificate.

One more qualification.

One more skill.

One more language.

Always collecting. Always improving. Always becoming.

But becoming what?

I used to be passionate.

I had discipline and passion.

But now, I don’t have either of them.

I don’t have the energy to get up and build something new anymore.

Everyone warned me how quickly I would go from 18 to 25. I knew it would happen, but I didn’t realize it would be this quick.

Being human is so weird.

One day I’m reminded that being alive itself is an achievement. The next day the world reminds me that apparently it isn’t.

Our generation is tired in a way that feels almost inhuman.

We are expected to survive, succeed, heal, hustle, smile, stay mentally stable, build something meaningful, and somehow still have stable mental health.

Consumerism is swallowing us alive while society keeps asking us who we are becoming.

Honestly, I don’t dream about becoming powerful anymore.

It’s exhausting.

I love chasing achievements, but lately I’ve been wondering if any of it even matters.

If I’m only doing all of this for my own satisfaction, do I really need to work this hard?

Maybe that’s selfish.

I’ve spent ten years running and I don’t even have the energy to wonder where I’m going anymore.

That’s all I’ve got.

A small side note: I make playlists on YouTube. If you’re looking for music to read, study, work, or stare dramatically out a window to, you’ll find me at Mona Vinyl.

I keep wondering how different my life would have been if he and I had just worked it out instead of letting go.

I wonder if couples therapy would have changed anything.

Would we have become happier? Stronger? Closer?

Or would we have simply found a different way to arrive at the same ending?

The truth is, I don’t know.

What I do know is that I spent half a decade trying to be loved by you, only to end up being the one who was let go.

And yes, I feel sorry for myself sometimes.

Not because the relationship ended.

Because I wanted you to fight for us.

I wanted you to tell me that we were worth saving.

I wanted you to grab hold of the loose threads when everything was unraveling and say, “Not yet. Let’s try one more time.”

But I was the only one fighting.

And when I finally stopped, when I finally put down my weapons and admitted I couldn’t do it alone anymore, it was so easy for you to accept it.

So easy to let go.

Sometimes I wonder if you had been waiting for me to say it first.

That thought still hurts.

I’m still sad.

But not in the same way I was a few days ago.

Maybe the medication is finally kicking in.

Maybe time is doing what time always does.

I still miss you.

I still think about you.

But I don’t cry myself to sleep anymore.

Now I mostly stare at the ceiling.

Or out a window.

Or at nothing at all.

Trying to analyze what happened.

Trying to understand where exactly love ended and grief began.

A mutual friend told me I should meet you at least once.

He said it could finally bring closure.

That what currently feels like “the end” could become “and.”

A continuation.

Another chapter.

A different story.

I understand what he means.

But hope is expensive.

And I have already paid for it once.

I don’t know if I can afford to get my hopes up again just to watch them break.

You appeared in my dream again.

I don’t remember much of the dream itself.

The details disappeared the moment I sat down to write about it.

But I remember spotting you.

I remember the feeling of seeing you again.

And I remember your hug.

Funny how memories work.

The facts fade first.

The feelings stay.

I miss you.

I want you.

And maybe that is what makes this so difficult.

Not that I don’t know whether I should talk to you.

It’s that I already know what part of me wants the answer to be.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book? I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona's playlist

Most reading advice focuses on the book.

Read a certain number of pages.

Finish one book before starting another.

Set a schedule.

Track your progress.

Some of that advice is useful. In fact, I’ve tried most of it myself.

I enjoy goals. I like reading challenges, yearly targets, checklists, trackers, and watching my progress grow over time. Crossing something off a list is deeply satisfying.

What I’ve learned, however, is that reading routines aren’t always built by changing how you read.

Sometimes they’re built by changing where you read.

Step 1: Figure Out Whether Reading Is Actually the Problem

For a long time, I assumed I needed a better reading routine.

Then I looked at my habits more honestly.

Reading wasn’t the issue.

I was already reading every day.

Sometimes that meant spending hours with a book. Other days it meant reading a single page before bed.

Both counted.

I’ve loved reading since childhood. Growing up, my family had a room dedicated entirely to studying and reading. Two walls were covered with books from floor to ceiling. Picking up a book has never required much effort on my part.

The real problem was something else.

I was spending most of my day sitting.

As a university student, much of my life takes place indoors. Studying, writing, eating, watching films, and reading all happen within the same space.

Even with different places to sit—a desk chair, an armchair, or a bed—I’m still sitting.

Once I identified the actual problem, the solution became much clearer.

Step 2: Stop Assuming There Is Only One Correct Way to Read

One of the most common pieces of advice given to readers is to focus on a single book until it’s finished.

That approach works for many people.

It doesn’t work for me.

At any given moment, I’m usually reading several books at once. Right now, that includes psychology books, a novel, and a self-improvement title. Some are in English, while others are in languages such as French and Italian because I want to maintain them.

Moving between books keeps me engaged.

A novel may suit one mood. A psychology book may suit another. Some days I want to learn something. Other days I want to escape into a story.

Rather than forcing yourself into a system because someone else recommends it, pay attention to what genuinely helps you stay engaged.

The best reading method is often the one you’ll actually continue using.

Step 3: Separate Goals from Pressure

Many readers abandon goals because they associate them with stress.

I see them differently.

Goals can be motivating.

Tracking progress can be fun.

Even a slightly overwhelming challenge can be exciting when the subject genuinely interests you.

Problems usually appear when the system becomes more important than the reading itself.

A reading goal should encourage the habit, not control it.

There’s nothing wrong with aiming for fifty books a year if the process remains enjoyable. Likewise, there’s nothing wrong with reading one page on a busy day and calling that a success.

Consistency matters more than perfection.

Step 4: Build Reading Destinations

This is the change that made the biggest difference for me.

Instead of asking:

“When should I read?”

Try asking:

“Where would I enjoy reading this book?”

A change of scenery can transform the experience.

A psychology book feels different when read in a luxury hotel lobby over afternoon tea.

A summer romance novel hits differently at the beach with a cold drink nearby.

Even familiar books can become more immersive when paired with the right atmosphere.

Reading no longer becomes another activity attached to the same desk.

It becomes a reason to go somewhere.

Step 5: Design Your Routine Around the Life You Want

Many people treat reading as an isolated habit.

I think it’s more useful to see it as part of a larger lifestyle.

If your goal is to read more, then a traditional reading routine might be enough.

If your goal is to read while also moving more, exploring new places, and spending less time glued to the same chair, then the routine needs to reflect that.

For me, the answer wasn’t another reading tracker or a stricter schedule.

It was creating opportunities to pair books with experiences.

The habit stayed exactly the same.

The environment changed.

As a result, reading became something that encouraged me to leave the house rather than another reason to stay in it.

And, hopefully, a way to prevent my butt from becoming any flatter than it already is.

Need something to play while you dive into your next book? I make reading, study, and work playlists over on YouTube. You might find your next favorite background soundtrack there.

Mona's Playlist

I recently came across a discussion that left me more frustrated than I expected.

The claim was simple: if a piece of writing contains no typos, readers are more likely to assume it was written by AI.

At first, I thought it was a joke. Then I realized many people genuinely believe this.

Apparently, a spelling mistake now serves as evidence of humanity.

We spent centuries teaching people how to read and write, only to arrive at the conclusion that competence is suspicious.

I cannot seem to accept that logic.

Perhaps I am old-fashioned in this regard, but if I publish something under my name—an essay, an article, a poem, even a social media post—I want it to be as polished as possible. If I discover a typo after publication, I am embarrassed. Not because the mistake is catastrophic, but because it signals that I failed to catch something I should have caught.

What confuses me is how quickly we have shifted from viewing mistakes as flaws to viewing them as proof of authenticity.

For most of modern history, good writing was associated with clarity, coherence, and attention to detail. Students spent years learning grammar and spelling. Publishers hired editors. Newspapers employed proofreaders. Entire professions were built around refining language.

Why?

Because errors were generally considered undesirable.

No one hires an editor to make writing worse.

No one sends a manuscript to a proofreader hoping they will introduce mistakes.

Yet if current logic is to be followed, perhaps publishing houses should start charging extra for typographical authenticity.

The existence of these professions reflects a simple assumption: careful communication matters.

Yet somewhere along the way, a strange idea emerged. If a piece of writing appears too polished, too structured, or too clean, some readers immediately become suspicious. The absence of mistakes is treated as evidence against the author rather than evidence of their effort.

I understand how we arrived here.

Artificial intelligence can now produce grammatically correct paragraphs in seconds. As a result, many people have started searching for signs that a human being was behind the words. They want evidence of a real person rather than a machine.

That desire makes sense.

The conclusion does not.

A typo does not prove humanity.

It proves that someone made a typo.

Nothing more.

A spelling mistake does not demonstrate originality, sincerity, intelligence, creativity, or emotional depth. If anything, AI-generated content can easily be edited to include mistakes on purpose. Once that happens, even the typo loses its value as a signal.

The assumption that errors equal authenticity falls apart rather quickly.

What I find particularly amusing is that people often say they want “authentic” writing.

What they usually mean is that they want writing that feels personal, thoughtful, and alive.

Yet somehow we have reduced this search for humanity to a spell-check test.

As if the difference between a human mind and a machine can be found in whether someone accidentally typed “teh” instead of “the.”

What makes writing human has never been imperfection alone.

It is judgment.

It is perspective.

It is the ability to connect ideas in unexpected ways.

It is the presence of lived experience behind the words.

A perfectly edited article can still reveal a unique worldview. An error-filled article can still feel empty and generic. The presence or absence of mistakes tells us remarkably little about the quality of the thinking involved.

I often compare writing to craftsmanship.

Imagine paying for a luxury experience at a five-star hotel. The food may be excellent, but so are the presentation, the service, the atmosphere, and the attention to detail. A small flaw does not ruin the experience, but details matter because they communicate care.

Writing is no different.

The words are not merely a vehicle for the message. In many cases, they are the product itself.

If a writer asks readers to invest their time, is it really unreasonable to expect the writer to spend a few extra minutes reviewing their work?

Of course, not every typo is evidence of laziness. People are tired. People are busy. Some writers are working in a second or third language. Some are dyslexic. Some simply prioritize speed over polish.

I am not arguing that a single mistake invalidates an entire piece of writing.

What I am questioning is the growing tendency to romanticize those mistakes.

There is a difference between accepting imperfections and celebrating them.

One recognizes human limitations.

The other risks treating carelessness as a virtue.

I am often told that perfection is overrated.

Perhaps it is.

But there is a considerable distance between perfection and making no effort at all.

Proofreading your own work does not make you a perfectionist. It makes you responsible for what you choose to publish.

The expectation that a writer should review their own work before presenting it to an audience strikes me as remarkably uncontroversial. Or at least, it used to.

The irony is that many of the same people who claim to value authenticity are actually looking for something much deeper than a typo. They are looking for voice. They are looking for conviction. They are looking for signs that a real person is thinking behind the screen.

I want those things too.

I simply do not believe that misspelling a word gets us any closer to finding them.

A typo is not authenticity, personality nor humanity.

It is just a typo.

And I refuse to believe that proofreading has suddenly become a character flaw.

Proofreading your own work does not make you a perfectionist. It makes you responsible for what you choose to publish.

A small side note: I make playlists on YouTube. If you're looking for music to read, study, work, or stare dramatically out a window to, you'll find me at Mona Vinyl.

Even famous ones.

There are books that generations of readers have called masterpieces—works described as life-changing, unforgettable, or profound. Yet sometimes I read them and feel nothing at all. Not dislike or disappointment. Just a quiet sense that the book and I never quite met.

The experience has made me question something many readers take for granted: What actually makes a book memorable?

We often assume that great books stay with everyone. But the more I read, the more I suspect that memorability has less to do with a book’s reputation and more to do with the relationship between the book and its reader.

Books Meet Us at Different Stages of Life

A common assumption is that a book’s quality alone determines its impact. Yet readers rarely encounter books under identical circumstances.

A novel about grief may feel ordinary to one reader and transformative to another. A story about ambition may resonate deeply with someone struggling to find direction while leaving little impression on someone content with where they are.

The same book can affect the same person differently at different points in life.

Sometimes a book doesn’t fail us. We simply meet it too early—or too late.

Reading is not a static experience. Every book arrives in conversation with the reader we happen to be at that moment.

Emotional Impact Matters More Than Reputation

When discussing literature, people often focus on prestige. We create lists of the greatest novels ever written, the most important classics, the books everyone “should” read.

But readers do not remember books because they are famous.

They remember books because they felt something.

A surprising ending. A sentence that articulated a feeling they had never been able to name. A character who felt painfully familiar. An idea that lingered long after the final page.

Emotional impact often leaves a stronger mark than literary reputation.

This may also explain why so many people struggle with classics. The issue is not necessarily that the books are difficult or outdated. Sometimes readers encounter them in environments that prioritize analysis and performance over personal engagement.

Being told a book is important is not the same as discovering why it matters to you.

Reading Is Shaped by Context

My own experience with Shakespeare illustrates this.

Out of all his works, Hamlet is the only one that stayed with me.

Part of that may be because the story already felt familiar. Its themes had been echoed in countless adaptations and references long before I encountered the play itself. Even people who have never read Shakespeare often recognize the phrase “to be or not to be.”

Yet I have never found myself voluntarily reaching for Shakespeare’s works afterward.

Looking back, I suspect the reason had less to do with the writing itself and more to do with the circumstances in which I encountered it.

In drama class, my attention was focused on performance. I worried about saying lines correctly, remembering cues, and avoiding mistakes. The words became something to execute rather than something to explore.

Around the same time, I discovered short stories and found myself captivated by them. They challenged me, confused me, and made me think. I wanted to understand them.

The contrast taught me an important lesson: our relationship with a text is often shaped by the conditions under which we meet it.

Sometimes we remember a book. Sometimes we remember the experience of reading it.

Not Every Great Book Is the Right Book for Every Reader

Literary discussions often create the impression that truly great books should appeal to everyone.

In reality, reading is deeply personal.

Some readers love dense symbolism and layered metaphors. Others prefer straightforward prose and emotional clarity. Some seek philosophical questions, while others are drawn to atmosphere, character relationships, or narrative momentum.

A writer can be brilliant without becoming a favorite.

There is an important difference between admiring a work and connecting with it.

Recognizing that difference can make reading more enjoyable. It allows readers to approach literature with curiosity rather than obligation.

Not every acclaimed book needs to become part of your life.

The Books That Stay Become Part of Our Personal History

The books we remember most often become attached to something larger than their plots.

Years later, readers may forget specific scenes or secondary characters while remembering exactly where they were when they read the book, what they were experiencing at the time, or why its message felt significant.

The book becomes connected to a version of themselves.

This may be why many readers continue searching for books long after they have shelves full of them. They are not only looking for information, entertainment, or even good writing.

They are looking for recognition.

They are looking for the rare experience of opening a book and finding a thought, fear, hope, or question that already existed inside them.

Perhaps that is why some books stay while others fade.

The books that remain are not always the most famous, the most critically acclaimed, or even the most technically accomplished.

They are the ones that arrive at the right moment, speak a language we are ready to hear, and leave behind something we carry with us after the final page.

And sometimes, that is worth more than greatness itself.

A post was shared with me recently. I’ll link it because it’s worth reading.

Back to What Matters

Don’t Leave This World Full of Almosts

A few weeks ago, I was walking past a cemetery after stepping outside during my stepson’s music compilation. I was able to listen to all of his performances, but at one point decided to get up and walk around because my lower back was bothering me…

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3 months ago · 13 likes · 3 comments · Mark Langdon

It was one of those posts that feels less like something you read and more like a warm hug from a stranger who somehow knows exactly what to say.

Just a few minutes after reading it, I went on YouTube to find something to listen to while reading other posts I’d saved in my notes.

That’s when a video appeared in my recommendations.

The title was something along the lines of “A song Billie Eilish wrote when she actually tried to commit suicide.”

At the beginning of the video, a woman asked Billie if she really wanted that experience to be turned into a song. Billie replied:

“This song is the way that I don’t. This way of saying it is better than doing it.”

That answer really hit me.

Not like a punch in the face, but more like a tap on the shoulder.

If that post felt like a warm hug, that video felt like someone quietly saying, “Hey, this is your way of saying it.”

I have to admit that I have thought about leaving ever since an unspeakable incident changed my life.

I’m sorry that I keep mentioning my ex, but for a long time, he was the person who kept me from leaving. He anchored me to this world and reminded me that there were reasons to stay.

I worked in customer service, and I knew how to smile even when all I wanted to do was leave the second I clocked out.

I may have been depressed and suicidal, but I still knew how work worked.

Months of acting lessons finally paid off. Not exactly the career application I had in mind, but still.

He made me smile without the need for acting.

Because of him, I found reasons to wake up in the morning and not immediately resent the fact that I had woken up.

He helped me rely less on medication and encouraged me to notice the beauty that still existed around me.

Of course, I had friends. I wasn’t completely feral.

But he was my bestest friend and my partner.

My knight in shining armour.

After the breakup, I relapsed.

Or maybe it started even earlier.

Maybe I relapsed the moment I knew, somewhere deep down, that the relationship was coming to an end.

I went back to depending on medication because no matter how much I drank or smoked, I still felt like a ghost.

Turns out neither cigarettes nor alcohol are particularly qualified therapists.

I’m just hovering through the world.

As if my existence was inconveniencing innocent people.

A close friend once said this to me:

“You’re like a beautiful crystal wine glass, waiting to be filled with the most expensive and delicious wine. But because you are so delicate, I’m afraid you might break one day and never be able to put back together.”

That friend always knew when I was acting, lying, or telling the truth.

He could see through me the same way my ex could.

Maybe that’s because we worked together and went through so much together.

Talk about a work trauma bond.

Or maybe some people simply pay closer attention than others.

He’s more than a colleague.

I am grateful for both of them.

I endured some of my darkest days because they were there.

I am in a new relationship now.

But I can’t honestly say that I am happy.

I know why I am unhappy.

What I don’t know is when that unhappiness will end.

Maybe that’s what I really wanted to say in this post.

Writing helps.

It doesn’t erase the pain.

It doesn’t make me feel less like a ghost overnight.

And it certainly hasn’t healed me completely.

But it gives those thoughts somewhere to go other than deeper inside myself.

When I write, I am saying the things I don’t know how to say out loud.

Maybe that is my version of what Billie meant.

A way of saying it instead of doing it.

These days, I am still here.

Still writing.

Still trying to build a life around something other than survival.

Maybe it’s working.

Just more slowly than I expected.

When I make a reading list—whether it’s for a week, a month, or (when I’m being a bit too ambitious) an entire year—I always start with a little research.

Especially for novels.

I feel oddly drawn to them, like I’m the negative end of a magnet and the story is the positive. Non-fiction sits somewhere in between.

So what do I look for?

I look into the background of the book—when it was written, where it’s set, and even what season it takes place in.

Because to me, reading—especially fiction—is more than just processing words. It’s an experience.

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Let’s say I buy a novel set in 1920s New York on New Year’s Eve… but I buy it in the middle of summer. Do I read it right away?

No.

I wait.

At least until December. Ideally, until winter fully settles in.

It might sound excessive, but I like aligning my reality with the world of the book. If I can’t travel through time, change my background, or physically step into that setting, I can at least control something—like timing, or atmosphere.

And when I can, I go even further.

If the story takes place in a bustling city, I’ll try to read it somewhere that echoes that energy. If it’s set on a farm—Animal Farm, for example—I might drive out to the countryside.

Does it sound a bit ridiculous?

Maybe.

But it works.

It pulls you deeper into the story. You don’t just read the book—you start to feel it.

Even the natural background noise of a place can do more than any curated “lo-fi study” playlist ever could. (Personally, lo-fi just makes me sleepy.)

And lately, there’s been a lot of talk about how certain scents can trigger specific memories.

I think that applies to reading, too.

The right scent lingering in the background can anchor you to a story in a way you don’t immediately notice—but later, it clicks. You smell something, and suddenly you’re back in that exact scene, that exact feeling.

I’ve explored this quite a bit, especially since I’m a bit obsessed with scents, but I’ll save a deeper dive for another article.

For now, think of it as another layer you can control.

But realistically, I can’t always drive thirty minutes just to match a setting. Most of us can’t.

And that’s where playlists come in.

When we want to fully experience a book but can’t physically place ourselves in its world, sound becomes the bridge. The right music can recreate atmosphere, tension, and emotion in a way that’s surprisingly immersive.

So whenever I start a book, I look for a playlist to go with it.

Usually, I’ll just search something like:

“playlist for reading Dracula by Bram Stoker”

Simple enough.

But here’s the problem: it’s actually hard to find the right playlist.

For lesser-known books, there often isn’t one at all. And even when there is, many playlists—despite being made by different people—reuse the same tracks.

So when I hear a song I’ve already associated with a completely different book, my mind drifts back to that story instead.

And suddenly, I’m not in the current book anymore.

I’m somewhere else.

As someone with the attention span of a five-week-old puppy, that completely breaks the immersion.

Maybe that’s why I’ve become so particular about matching music to books.

Not because music is essential to reading, but because atmosphere matters. The more pieces of the experience that work together—the season, the setting, the sounds, even the scent in the room—the easier it becomes to disappear into a story.

And for me, that’s what reading is really about.

Not finishing a book.

Not reaching a page count.

But feeling, for a little while, as though I’ve stepped into another world.

Mona Vinyl

As a result of all this, I eventually started making my own playlists.

What began as a personal solution slowly turned into a small YouTube channel dedicated to book-inspired reading atmospheres and playlists.

I mostly made it because I wanted something like it for myself, but if it sounds like your sort of thing, feel free to stop by sometime.

Psychology claims that when you are thinking of someone constantly, it means that the person isn’t thinking of you, but your mind draws comfort from the image of them.

I read that once and hated how quickly it settled inside me, because if that is true, then maybe I have spent all this time loving a memory instead of a person.

I think of him constantly.

Not in dramatic ways, not always in the kind of heartbreak people write songs about, but in the quiet, exhausting ways that feel even worse.

In ordinary moments.

In the silence after midnight.

In the pause before I fall asleep.

In random places where nothing should remind me of him, and somehow everything does.

It is never loud. It is persistent.

Like something sitting beside me that refuses to leave.

Part of me used to find comfort in that. I told myself that maybe being unable to let go meant something.

Maybe if someone lives in your mind that often, there must still be something unfinished between you.

Maybe somewhere, in some passing second, he thinks of me too.

But the truth is much colder than that.

Sometimes people leave and they keep leaving, even after they are gone.

They leave in conversations that no longer happen, in routines that feel wrong without them, in the strange emptiness of realizing your life has continued but your mind has not.

He left like that. Not all at once, but in pieces. And somehow those pieces stayed with me.

I sit in the lonely kind of silence that only comes when you have already said everything and none of it changed anything.

The kind of silence that feels haunted. I sit there and I wish anyway. I want anyway. Even knowing he will never be with me again, some part of me still reaches for him like habit, like instinct, like grief pretending to be hope.

It is embarrassing, in a way, how much of love survives after love itself is over. How your mind keeps returning to the same person, not because they are still yours, but because your heart has not learned the difference between memory and presence.

So I close my eyes.

Because sometimes dreams are kinder than reality. In dreams, there are no endings that feel final. There is no distance that cannot be crossed. There is no version of life where he is only someone I used to know. In dreams, he still exists in reach. In dreams, I do not have to practice losing him.

And maybe that is the problem.

Maybe I have made a home out of absence.

Maybe I have mistaken longing for love because longing asks for nothing except repetition.

It lets me keep him without having him at all.

Still, I would rather meet him there—in sleep, in memory, in whatever fragile place my mind has built for him—than wake up to the reality of a life where he is truly gone.

Because some people do not leave all at once.

Sometimes they stay in the mind long after they have disappeared from everything else.

And sometimes loving someone is nothing more than learning how to live with their ghost.

Whenever I talk to ChatGPT, the conversation somehow ends the same way.

“Help is available. Speak to a professional.”

I understand why. I really do.

People hear words like hopelessness, exhaustion, suicidal thoughts, and they panic. The world has been trained to respond quickly to pain. To redirect it. To contain it before it becomes dangerous.

But there is something strangely lonely about watching every conversation end with a doorway being pointed out to you that you have already walked through a hundred times.

Therapy didn’t work. Meditation didn’t work. Medication didn’t work. Affirmations didn’t work. Mental health walks didn’t work. Journaling didn’t fix it. Neither did routine. Neither did “focusing on the positives.”

I have spent years trying. Years.

Not in the romanticized way people imagine when they talk about healing. Not candle-lit bubble baths and inspirational quotes on Pinterest. I mean the humiliating, exhausting kind of trying. The kind where you drag yourself to appointments hoping this time someone will finally say the right thing. The kind where you swallow pills with reluctant hope. The kind where you sit in silence during meditation, waiting for peace that never arrives. The kind where you walk outside because everyone insists sunlight helps, even though the air still feels heavy in your lungs.

People assume suffering comes from not understanding yourself. But what happens when you understand yourself too well?

I can name almost everything I’m feeling. I can categorize it. Trace it back to its roots. I know what trauma does to the nervous system. I know how emotional flashbacks work. I know why avoidance exists. I know grief can linger in the body long after the event is over. I know healing is nonlinear. I know emotions rise like waves and eventually recede.

I know all of it.

I have read countless books trying to dissect myself into something manageable. Psychology books. Trauma books. Books about attachment. Books about grief. Books about survival. Books written by people who made it out alive.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part.

Knowledge does not automatically create relief. Awareness does not guarantee endurance.

Sometimes I feel like a person standing in the middle of a storm with a complete scientific explanation of rain while still drowning in it.

That’s what people don’t understand. Understanding pain and surviving pain are two entirely different skills.

Everyone keeps talking about getting better as though it’s inevitable. As though recovery is simply a matter of patience. As though endurance naturally follows awareness.

And maybe for some people, it does.

But there are days when I don’t question whether things can improve. I question whether I’m strong enough to survive long enough to see it happen.

That is the part I struggle to explain.

Not because I want attention. Not because I want pity. But because there is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting yourself for years. An exhaustion so deep that even hope starts to feel physically heavy.

People love stories about resilience. They love the ending where the person finally heals. Where everything painful becomes meaningful in retrospect. Where survival turns into wisdom.

But nobody really talks about the middle. The unbearable, repetitive middle. The part where you wake up every morning already tired. The part where functioning becomes performance. The part where laughter still exists, but disappears the second you’re alone. The part where life keeps moving while you quietly wonder how much longer you can carry yourself through it.

And still. Despite everything. Despite all the failed attempts. Despite the frustration. Despite how many times I’ve felt unreachable even to myself.

Some part of me keeps speaking. Some part of me keeps writing. Some part of me keeps trying to explain what this feels like.

Maybe that part matters more than I realize.

Because maybe strength does not always look like confidence. Maybe sometimes strength is just continuing the conversation even after losing faith in the answers.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough for what comes next. That is the truth.

But I think there must still be something inside me that wants to find out.