There I am, headphones in ears, carrying my obnoxiously large tote bag filled with books that I absolutely can’t afford. I sit on a yellow subway seat. My shoulder skims the stranger’s on the left.

I stiffen. Goosebumps flush my arms. I hear the distance of No One Noticed playing in my ear. I see a couple in front of me, incapable of looking away from each other’s gaze. I join in. It’s now a three way staring contest. I wait to see who looks away first. The repetitive monologue in my head says: they’re gunna get hurt. But will it be her or him? Will they think back to this mundane moment, foreheads resting on one another, watching the irises dilate and contract in each other’s eyes? Will they know that a stranger was watching them. Not just that, but a stranger has momentarily entered the gates of their private shrine?

Now all I can think about is the aching pull to rest my head on stranger on the left’s shoulder.

Perhaps for a minute I can convince myself that the stranger on the left has your scent, that if I close my eyes and sink into the feeling, it would take me back to that time. Or maybe I’m just craving familiarity, craving the quiet intimacy of brushing my knees against yours, of my mouth grazing your arm before I feel safe enough to shut my eyes and let you take the lead. I breathe into that feeling.

But wait, have I ever felt that safety before? Now I’m not so sure. Have my dreams become so vivid that I’ve fabricated something close enough to yearn for and yet somehow so far away from my reach?

Now I’m walking across the platform, sweat clinging onto my back, dripping down my head and hair. I smell something that stops me. A mix of cedar and wood. Maybe a little bit of oud.

My heart aches, homesick is it? Homesick for what? I think. For who? For myself, perhaps?

It smells like home. But which home? Tears sting my eyes and I feel pathetic. Standing here wondering if I miss something, someone, that I never even had. Maybe someone I haven’t even met yet. My face contorts and I wonder if people can notice. Then I remember where I am, the subway. And no one gives a shit. I continue nodding along to the sad tunes in my head.

I take a step forward, a question pops into my mind, I take a step back.

Can I forgive fate? Can I forgive the magic that wrote up our story in the stars? Can I forgive the being that imagined you in my life, but only momentarily, only briefly enough to savor the sweetness of your soul?

Can I forgive the bitch that saw me begging on my knees for mercy and continued to press down on the weight of my shoulders? How do I argue with them? How do I argue with something bigger than even I? Is that something I believe in? Or is that another way that I choose to love you? Another way to forgive you, to soften my heart to you?

Another way to take responsibility off of you, all of you, who stared deep into my eyes while holding a knife that plunged into my ribs.

I bite my lip, exit the 2 train and walk up the stairs. Three friends walk side by side, speaking a language I’m unfamiliar with. One of them smiles. They have lines on their head and body signaling a beautiful and full life.

So many different forms of simple intimacy.

Do they even realize it when they’re in it? Do they realize that the way they twirl his hair, waiting for the train, is a luxury that not everyone gets to experience?

Do they realize that leaning on her when the drinks feel like too much, is a simple form of reassurance. That she’s got you, and more than that, you’ve convinced yourself to let your guard down. Even if for just the night.

Some people spend half their life chasing one fleeting, perfect, beautiful moment, and spend the rest of their lives reliving and replaying that moment over and over and over again.

Perhaps I’ll be one of those people.

I’d often times already memorialize a minute, even when experiencing it, simply knowing how much my heart would miss it when it was over. There’s a genuine deep rooted sadness to feeling an unbelievable euphoria in midst of a lifetime of disappointment.

But even then, it’s a reminder. It’s a reminder that I wasn’t just hallucinating! That this actually happened! That the fantasy in my head actually existed! Under the stars, gazing up at little dipper. On the roof, watching the city come alive. Hand in hand, freezing to the touch.

And either everyone has someone they’re replaying these memories with, even if they claim it means nothing to them, or I’m more alone and more fucked up than I even realize.

Another couple in front of me, hand in hand.

In another life, I’m in a strange city with a man that I thought to be the love of my life. We’re walking the streets shopping at a local farmers market and I pretend not to see how he looks back at the women in the booth.

In another life I’m in her apartment, a plate of hot food placed in front of me with a table that we shopped for together. The silence is deafening as she scrolls on her phone, carefully hiding her screen from me.

In this life, I’m 26, turning 27, and I walk alone across one of my favorite cities, and I live with my best friend, and I work a job that screams passion, and I clickity clack on my laptop when I feel inspired and I read and read and meet strangers and dance and play pool and smoke and laugh and cry.

I’ve had so many possibilities of a life that I’m not currently living. I’ve had so many visions of a life that no longer exist to me.

I breathe in the New York air, close my eyes and get transported to the image I used to have of myself.

I walk into a cafe, with my journal in one hand, my book in the other. And I sit down by the largest window in the shop and begin to write.

As I sip my coffee, he walks in. Him. The man that I, at the time, believed to be the love of my life. Him. He walks into the coffee shop and sits across from me. He tells me about all of the things that he’s been up to since we last saw each other. I tell him of the adventures that I’ve been on. I smile, recounting each and every one of them, and he smiles, watching me rave about the things I once said I would accomplish.

We walk around the city, almost hand in hand, but not quite. His brushing mine. The reds on my cheeks grow stronger. He catches glimpses of me as I stare out to the river. We talk about a future that we know doesn’t exist.

Same vision, different man. Different almost. Different what if. Different unreachable, unrequited love.

I thought I already had my almost in my life. And funny enough, I was able to live with that. I was able to live with the unfinished sentences, knowing it would be my last cliffhanger. Knowing I survived it, thrived after it. God. But even now, even now when I know how this all ends. Even now when I desperately try to rewrite history to save myself, it still hurts.

A full decade later. The same woman that walked down the streets, still envisioning her life as a writer.

Perhaps the what if, then, isn’t between me and them. Perhaps it’s the the almost between me and the woman that I speak of. The one who has gone on adventures. Who did take the leap.

Now do it with me, big inhale, big exhale. I shake my head and come back to the present.

So finally, to the couple in front of me:

As she clings onto your shoulders and rests her head on your body, stop looking at your fucking phone and pay attention to her, before I punch you in the face.

Sincerely,

A woman filled with nostalgia xo

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The world has ended several times.

It was just a Monday. Or was it a Saturday?

It was just a text message. Maybe even a phone call.

The world has ended several times.

I’ve experienced the walls closing in on me. Not an expression, if you’re wondering. A truth. A reality.

Your vision thins, you’re simultaneously trying to stay awake, stay present, and also desperately trying to escape the newfound reality that you’ve found yourself in. And all of a sudden all you can see are the arms wrapping themselves around you, and that’s only if you’re lucky enough to have them there. And your mind, one that used to be so whole, so pure, breaks into a hundred, no, into a thousand puzzle pieces. (Anyone here like a puzzle?)

Everything you once knew, shattered. Everyone you once knew, re-introduces themselves to you. And you to them.

Hi, I’m totally fucked up but for the time being I guess I could also be (irony aside) serene.

And still I come back to this place of want. Of need. How dare I? How dare I not learn from my old habits, how dare I not learn from my past mistakes?

Is it weak naivety? Or is it resilience? Is it ignorance? Is it strength?

Is it is it is it?

So my chest puffs up and I yell at the mirror:

How dare you ignore the callings from the universe that pull you down to the soil that plants the trees, the roots and the flowers that then bloom? But soil that also carries ghosts of the past, unsaid words, unfinished sentences, uneaten bones?

But I push past the imagery that blends behind my eyes, and I put on that nice shirt, fuck it, and my good pants too. I wear the lipstick that always seemed too bold, but that now seems sullen. I strut in my new purse and I step foot outside the door.Wait, can’t forget my joint. Oof.

And then when someone says:

Tell me about yourself?

But my index and middle fingers are already holding on to a foreign object, lighter in hand. I stare at them wide eyed and think:

Perhaps it’s that I have so much trauma, enough to horrify the average person. Perhaps it’s that some days I feel so fucking hard to love, as I’m clutching my ears and crouching down in tears, the noise of the world too hard and too loud to bear. Perhaps it’s that I am aimless in my life, simply trying to make it through each day, and now all of a sudden I’m on the eve of 27 still unsure of where I stand. Perhaps it’s that my heart has been so battered that to trust will mean to claw my way through my own demons.

But instead I wink and say:

I think I’m pretty perfect, actually.

They laugh. I laugh.

She sounds familiar, that girl, the one that blubbers on from the tips of her tongue. But really, even I know that the shades of red flares before her eyes.

And yet as I inhale the smoke into my lungs, I know that all I really want is:

Someone to fall in love with me. I want them to see me past moments of performance. Past moments of fluttering my eyes and tilting my head back. Past moments of making my eyes wider, my lips plumper. Past moments of putting my hair behind my ear and twirling the ends in my fingers.

I want someone to fall in love with me. I want them to ask about my favorite book, and not just mean it, but care about the response too. I want them to ask me about the chapters that made me who I am. I want them to breathe in deep as they turn the page one by one, the horror, the shock of it. I want them to never regret asking. I want them to see me more than just the person who went through something.

I want someone to fall in love with me. I want them to hear the rambles that only a select few get to hear. I want them to listen to an artist I mentioned in passing, and become obsessed with them. Just because it gives them insight into who I am. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll both be lying down in our own homes, our own beds, listening to the same song.

I want someone to fall in love with me. I want them to shut my world out when the voices get too loud. When it all gets too loud. When I start blinking my eyes, inconsolably.

I want someone to fall in love with me. With my bones that creak, with my skin that’s bruised, with the tips of my fingers that I bite, a bad habit.

I want to fall in love with someone. Someone else. Someone new. A risk, worth taking.

So I exhale all that’s left in my chest and I purse my lips:

But only if that means letting go of the fear that has blocked my heart thus far. But only if it means finally making myself bigger, and not smaller.

And only if it means never hearing:

I want to learn every single thing about you.

When they instead mean to say:

Maybe we should never speak again.

Because how does anyone get used to that duality of promise?

I inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale the remainder of my joint and my mind continues:

And maybe I don’t understand it, maybe I will never understand it, because I’ve never quite given up on something I care about. I worry and think and overthink and emphasize in all the ways I could fuck things up. But then I pick myself back up and I send that text and I apply to that job and I write that piece and I try. I try and try and try. And so when I see someone look at me, look at the effort I bring into my own life and decide that they’ve done enough by simply peeking through the windshield – 

Inhale.

Well, that would knock the wind out of anybody, wouldn’t it?

And then one day in the future I’m sitting at the park, music blasting in my ear, sulking beyond repair. Thinking and dreaming and thinking of all the things that I’ve endured. Of all the things that were said to me, not said to me. All the ways I wish to never feel again.

But then I see the couple in front of me. An easy intimacy between them. They’re sitting on a picnic blanket, facing each other. He slides closer to her, his knee now touching hers. She’s talking with her hands, loud and emotive. He’s staring intently at her, his fingers intertwined with his own. I imagine they’ve been together for a few months, it’s the eagerness in which he watches her but with the intimacy of someone who’s taken a peek inside the other’s soul.

And I realize something important. I realize that somewhere along the way you forget, or in the very least I forgot.

You forget that the person in front of you, that every single person in front of you, has dreams and ambitions. They’ve suffered heartbreak, have pulled themselves out from under the trenches. Have had to live with themselves. They have regrets. They are full in a way that you’ve not allowed yourself to see. They’re full in a way that you’ve protected yourself from.

So I think:

How sad is it, to have shielded my heart from the inevitable hurt? To pretend to have some control, some glimmer of illusion captured over not pouring my heart into someone else’s?

And so I pop an edible and I sit through my favorite show, for the 75th time (yes, really.)

And I:

Cry. That’s what you do when you give yourself the permission. That’s what you do when you see the same lines repeated over and over again, you mumble the next line in between the tears already leaking out of your eyes. You wish you could warn them, the character, of what’s about to come. But you take stock and the comfort in the familiarity that you know that they will end up alright. That despite it all, despite all the warnings that you could provide, they still end up alright.

So I go back to my drawing board, my vision board, if you will, and I:

Wish, hope, command that maybe one day I’ll experience love with the absence of trauma. And it won’t shock me. Not anymore. It won’t surprise me that there are no serotonin filled highs and undeniable lows. It won’t catch me off guard that the absence of my anxiety doesn’t equal the absence of care. It won’t hurt me that I’ve allowed myself to fall. It won’t damage me for the millionth time.

It will be peaceful and sweet. It will feel the way I feel when I stare at an ocean’s horizon. It will feel the way I feel when I start a book that deep in my bones I know is about to change my life. It will feel the way I feel when I learn something new about someone I love, sweet, tender, curious. It will feel the way I feel when I’m dancing and my hair is in my face and I peek from my unopened eyes and I see the euphoria on my friend’s face.

It will feel.

And with that glorious bit in mind, I float through the clouds that I’ve been dreaming on, murmurs of Hot priest, Boo and Claire in the background, knowing with a heavy heart that the battle in my mind starts all over again tomorrow.

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My dad extends an arm forward, rose in hand. Well, four to be precise. One for my mom, one for my Teta, one for my sister and one for me. We each smile and tear up. We stand up and hug him tight, with a kiss on the cheek.

No occasion needed.

Simply because he was passing by Gloria, his favorite florist. He chats with her and compliments the selection she has that day. He jokes that the boss would be upset if he doesn’t grab a few flowers. But we all know that he loves to show his own affection.

My brother in law looks at my sister as she jumps up and down, purely out of joy. He holds her tight when her body mistakes joy for overwhelm. She squirms away, shy from the touch. And still looks back and smiles at him, giving in to his embrace.

He sits at every family dinner, peppering in inshallahs and mashallahs to connect deeper with each of us. He giggles, impressed at his own learned phrases.

Love through remembrance.

My brother’s girlfriend writes instructions for him.

Step 1: eat a spoonful of honey first :)

Step 2: take panadol next <3

Step 3: don’t forget the vitamin c :)

She lays the ingredients by his bed, knowing he’ll wake up and see the spread in front of him.

I tear up as he tells me the story, in passing. The rarity of pure adoration.

My heart feels so lucky to be surrounded by so many examples of love. So many examples of the gentle joys that can come from opening your heart up. That can come from taking the risk, the leap in jumping into the unknown. Losing some semblance of control over your own future, knowing it’s now tied to the fate of someone else’s, too.

And secretly, pathetically, I try to muster up the same joy, the same gratitude, when it comes to my own romantic endeavors.

I try not to feel weak for my short comings. I try not to feel tormented by my decision to cling on to the reality of someone else’s mind. I try not to torture my own psyche over entrusting someone with my heart. I try not to feel betrayed by their actions as I dream of their words.

And then I think.

One day you’ll move on (you probably already have.) Worse, one day I will (haven’t I already?)

One day you’ll be with her and not me. And maybe it’ll feel like a knife slowly twisting inside my body, but hopefully it won’t. Because one day you’ll stay up until 5 am talking to her, instead. One day you’ll walk around the same streets we once walked down. One day you’ll dance and lock eyes with her from across the room. One day you’ll show up to her door with cookies and flowers in hand, just because. One day, on a random Tuesday you will have the best day of your life and I won’t even know it, but maybe she will.

One day she’ll know that though you think you carry your heart on your sleeve, it’s actually buried deep deep in your chest. One day she’ll know that you fear losing control, that at times your vulnerability is almost rehearsed. One day she’ll know that you so badly want to be enough, that you can’t fathom showing up as less than.

She’ll know that a look into your heart is a fucking liberty.

She’ll know that for better or worse, you say every single thing on your mind. That your eyes have no filter. That your smile is uninhibited.

And it’ll be okay. And I’ll be okay. Because I’ll be busy walking down the streets that I never got to walk down before. I’ll be busy reading books that I get to share with my local barista. I’ll be busy heads down over my laptop, or on my feet commanding a room. I’ll travel to places I’ve never been to. I’ll be busy meeting people that I never thought I could meet. I’ll be busy telling stories to my friends with their eyes wide in horror and laughter (my sweet spot.) I’ll be busy singing loudly to songs that I didn’t know six months prior, three months prior.

I’ll be busy falling in love with my own skin.

And maybe one day I’ll even be busy falling in love again.

And by then, I’d finally understand.

By then, I’d finally understand why I couldn’t be enough for you.

I’ve done it before. Negotiated with myself. Bargained with myself until I came to terms with the fact that I’m better off.

That I’m better off without you, yes. Better off without anyone, probably yes, but hopefully not.

It’s what I’ve told myself. What I continue to tell myself. And I think that’s true. At least I hope it is.

And yet, I silently don’t hope that it’s true for you. I secretly don’t hope that you’re better off without me.

Selfish. Vain. Petty.

A contradiction to its core. Human.

Some days my heart wells up with tears so loud, I can hardly hear my own thoughts. Some days the banging in my head screams and screams and screams, begging me to feel it. Begging me to sit with the pain.

To both sit with the knowledge that in the same breath I’m told that I’m desired, but not wanted.

Do you feel how I feel when someone says your name?

Does your heart beat just a millisecond faster? Does your face flush? Do you bite down on your teeth to keep your mouth still? Do your eyes widen, look around the room?

Or

Do you smile at the memory? Does your heart stay still? Indifference at it’s finest. Apathy.

I’d rather you hated me.

Like a blade welted in my chest, a familiarity so sullen that I no longer notice the blood creeping down my body.

There’s a difference, you see. Between desire and want. To be desired is easy, simple. It’s a concept. The idea of me that people often idealize.

And some days that’s all I want. I don’t want to feel anything. I want to feel only desired. Accept the image of me that I produce.

But then, if that’s the path you’re going to take, please don’t burden me with loving me. Don’t burden me by falling for the image you think you see.

Because to be wanted is to see through the thoughts that I plague myself with. It’s to notice and still say ‘I think, no I know that this is where I want to be.’

Often times, far too many times, the desire lures them in just to trap them. And while I trip on my own bad decisions and fall and fall and fall, they’re busy walking backwards.

I almost don’t notice their back pressed to the door behind them, one hand reaching towards me, the other fumbling for the door handle.

They’re busy filling themselves with regret. They’re busy trying to morph me into the person they thought I was. So I try. Desperately. I try to become that version that they wanted me to be. I wave my hands around, distracting them from fleeing.

But alas, I am who I am. I love what I love, I cry when I cry and I yearn and speak and sing and breathe and laugh and think and think and think and my god it can be such a pain to sit in the space in between my own eyes.

So as I become larger, bolder, bigger, they get smaller. They disappear further away, until I can no longer see them.

Slowly, they make their way through the door. Sometimes they turn back and give me a wave, a smile, perhaps. Sometimes they run towards me and give me a kiss on the forehead, knowing now that the door has opened for them to quietly escape.

I once thought that if I could convince them of my value..if I could just prove to them, show them that my love could be so powerful, that my love could be so big, that they would then stay.

I thought it was something that had to be earned, being wanted back that is.

I’m no longer interested in begging someone to stay. I’m no longer interested in fighting for their acceptance, for their longing, for their interest.

I no longer hold my stomach in hunger as I swallow the breadcrumbs they feed me. Starved.

I’m full with my own accord. I’m full with my own light, and perhaps a little scared. Perhaps my tears flow more easily than they used do.

Perhaps that’s due to years of holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps I told my therapist that this was the first time in my life I wasn’t waiting for that drop anymore.

Isn’t that so stupid? I asked her through tears and a smile. No, all that does is break my heart. I then watch as she tears up herself and asks how I feel now that I’m aware of her emotions.

In the same breath she tells me that she often doesn’t laugh this much with anyone else.

And all I can think is I totally got an A+ in therapy today.

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Perception is a funny thing. Every single person’s experience of you is different. You could be in a room filled with people, and each one of them would take a look at you, take a look at your movements, your speech, and have an alternate view of who you are. They would make assumptions, some good, and some not so good, of ultimately what your character is.

I was out with a friend the other day. A new friend. I heard a scream behind me and immediately turned. A group of girls excited to see one another. He laughed and said “Were you checking to make sure everyone was safe?” I blushed, in deep embarrassment of being caught red handed. I nodded with a sly smile on my face. How could he know? He doesn’t know my experiences, doesn’t know my hyper vigilance.

Many of my friends, dare I say all of my friends, have all told me that they felt they were meeting me for the first time after my ex and I broke up.

What a shock to the system. “Have I changed that much?” I would ask, quietly, afraid.

“You have never been more yourself than you are right now.” They’d reply back.

That’s what I mean when I say that it’s been a while since I recognized myself. No matter how hard I tried to fight against it, the mirror fogged. I would wipe at the condensation, squint my eyes. But they would just come through and exhale, deeply, on the mirror, making sure it stayed blurry.

What a beautiful thing it is, then, to find people who can see your soul. Who can look past the cloud of discernment that falls upon you.

But then, what do you do when you meet someone who does nothing but misunderstands you. Who does everything in their power to see a character that you think, that you know doesn’t exist.

What is reality and what is truth?

And more importantly, what do you do when you meet someone who finally sees through you. Who looks at you and can see past the trauma, past the guilt, past the flaws. Who can see the joy, who can see the laughter, who can see the ambition that you possess.

What’s worse? To know that the other person is wrong, or to wonder if they feel the same way about you that you do them?

Did they exist in the same experience that I existed in?

Did they feel the same emotions I felt?

Was it all made up in my head? And does it matter, even if it was? Does it water down the hope in your heart? Does it force you to rewrite history? Does it force you to push down any lingering emotions, for fear, god so much fear, of looking vulnerable. Again.

So, you can’t help but think about the moments where they held space for you, where they smiled as tears fell down your face. You can’t help but think about the moments that healed you. Moments that made you feel alive, after far too long of feeling frozen, stuck.

The cycle of doom.

And then simultaneously you acknowledge that some people, knowingly or unknowingly, create space for emotional intimacy without wanting to hold the responsibility for what vulnerability can do to another person.

Without wanting to stand and observe as the person in front of them crumbles and falls apart, scared to death at the words that just came out of their own mouth. Scared to death at the intensity of the other’s gaze. Scared to death. So they trot on and pat themselves on the back for doing the brave and important thing of opening someone’s heart up, never daring to look back at the mess of blood and tears that sprinkle the floors in their departure.

And then it all comes back to: reality.

What are the facts.

The sky is blue, yes. The grass is green, yes. I have brown hair, yes. I have brown eyes, yes. But their eyes. Hers, not matching the smile on her face. His, seeping with nostalgia even as he stands before me.

No. Focus. I have ten fingers and ten toes, yes. I have six tattoos, yes.
Facts. Facts. Facts.

I loved them, yes. But did they love me?

What do you do when you feel loved by someone who doesn’t love you? What do you do when you hear their deep inhale, deep exhale, as you brush past them?

I’ve always wished I could see the inside of people’s brains. I’ve always wished I could see how they perceive me. Perhaps that’s because I’ve never understood the subtle signs. Perhaps that’s because I’ve been often mislead. Or perhaps that’s because I don’t believe someone when they tell me what they think of me.

A friend and I were speaking and she asked me “Do you think he treats everyone this way, or just me?”

I thought about it. Hard. I thought about myself. I thought about all the times I’ve reused and recycled the same phrases, knowing what others wanted to hear.

But then I thought about the moments that were different. Where I was too tired to pretend. Where I would move from one side of the car to the other to let him rest his head on my shoulder.

I thought about my own thoughts in that moment. The adrenaline, my heart thumping, the careful breaths, ensuring I don’t move a muscle. I thought about how worried I was that I would eventually be deemed as just one of the many numbers, to them.

To be compartmentalized into a category of a person, rather than being digested as the entirety of my being.

When did this start?

Maybe it was when the first person that I loved, truly deeply loved, looked confused when I told him that all my friends knew about us. He shook his head slightly, and for the first time, I felt small. I felt small, and still, I understood.

Maybe it was when someone new wanted to show me off, and I happily obliged. Wanting to be the trophy that I felt I deserved to be.

Maybe it was when she showered me with compliments and love, and I sunk into it. So then when she told me all the ways I needed to improve, I accepted it.

Maybe it was when he told me every single thought on his mind, and I smiled, even when it hurt. Wanting to feel close to someone, wanting to understand them, trust them.

Maybe I am the way I am because I kept on believing others over myself. Or rather, believed in them.

And maybe that’s in the ways I stare out the window when a certain song comes on, or when tears fill my eyes at a line in a book.

Or maybe I mean that in the ways I’m able to laugh with my entire body. In the ways that I’m able to make others laugh.

In the ways that I jump into new experiences, knowing what the worst can be, and no longer afraid of the mediocre moments.

In the ways that I ask for advice, deep down already knowing the answer.

In the ways that I show up, in therapy, in my workouts, with my clients, with my friends, with my family.

In the ways that I wear all colors of the rainbow.

In the ways that my eyes disappear when I smile.

In the ways that my hair continues to get shorter and shorter.

In the ways that I add more art to my body.

In the ways that I still love, so deeply and so fiercely.

Maybe I am the way I am because I’m a representation of the love that I give, rather than the love that I receive.

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People are frustratingly easy to read. An eye flicker towards the door, fear. A name mentioned once, twice, three times, unresolved. A leg bounce, finger tap, nervous.

They’re so easy to read, that it takes extra concentration to actively not notice people’s tells. To remind myself that I don’t need to worry about them. I know how that sounds, I do. But my mind was constantly preoccupied by every single person around me. I’d notice the crease in their eyebrows and want to know more, no, need to know more. I’d let it consume me. I’d let the scenarios run wild in my head.

And when they do run wild, when I do let my heart sink it’s arteries into the fantasy of who they are, who they will become, well..the control I would have once had, disappears.

Fast forward.

My eyes then water because I know. I know that the love in my heart will only dull, but never disappear. I know because I’ve been here before. I know how this works.

I know because even as I watched them hurt me over and over and over again, the love in my heart stayed. Why do I allow for that? What is so wrong with me that I’m both simultaneously so easy to forget and so hard to keep?

And still, just as quickly, the fantasy fragments. Pieces of delusion scatter across a now empty room.

It’s funny though. Funny that there’s no warning for when it happens. No warning for when the rose colored glasses finally shatter.

One day you’re holding their head so high up above the horizon, scared to bring them down. And the next, your arms shake, unable to keep them above you for much longer. You notice a small flaw. You recall something they said, that you swore made sense to you at the time. But now, you can’t remember why. You can’t remember what appealed you to their explanation.

You can’t remember why you were enamored by their armor that they wore with such pride.

You question everything, then. You question the person you were as you looked away from their gaze, too shy to hold on to the intensity of it. You question the reality you lived in, as you held back tears after a long phone call. As you faked a smile, and promised that you were okay.

Exhale. Deep breath in and out.

In the back of your mind you’re happy. You’re free, you chant. You’ve made it out, you’re free. The shackles of placing someone above their rank, broken.

And still. And still, you go back to the beginning of it all. Back to the fantasy of what could be.

But, it takes a minute. A second. A millisecond. That’s all it takes for your life to change for good. Did you pick up that phone call? Did you apply to that job? Did you lean forward and kiss them? Did you make eye contact with them in a crowded room? Did you look both ways before crossing the street? Did you break up with them? Did you fight for them?

Did you, did you, did you?

And when you do take advantage of every heartbeat that life offers, you can’t help but think, will this be the moment? Will this, under the dull red and purple lights, disco ball hanging, be the moment that the icicles around my heart melt, again?

Do I give a little bit of myself? I question. Not too much. Nothing fatal. But pieces. Small bits. Enough to keep them hooked. Enough to remind them of my humanity.

Don’t freak out, no. Breathe through it.

And still, I hope, pray, wish, to the universe that if there ever is another moment. No, not a moment. A flicker of a moment. An indication. That a touch could mean more than atoms approaching one another, that a gaze could move oceans apart, forcing me to walk on water, that I cherish it. That I hold onto it, cling to it with every last fiber of my being.

Don’t let the fear take over, don’t, don’t, don’t.

Wait for me. I chant silently.

Not you, the person in front of me. Not you, the one in my dreams. But the beating heart in my chest. The object between my eyes. Wait for me while I catch up. Wait for me while I catch my breath.

And then some days it dawns on me. Some days I’m wearing an outfit that they, the original they, wouldn’t recognize. Head to toe, foreign to them. I’m on my way to a party, that they would’ve hated. I’m thinking of what my life would be like with them still in it. Logically, I know. Logically, I know that I would be so miserable.

But I mean, in the small moments. What they would say as I’m sitting on this bus, headphones in, with a song I never showed them? What they would say as I’m dreaming of things, big things, that I never shared with them?

And I think, thank fucking god. Thank god I have a piercing they’ll never see. Thank god I have a tattoo that they would have picked apart.

Thank god I’ve become a practical stranger. Thank god I am now what I always wanted to be to them, unrecognizable.

A cycle. Rinse and repeat.

So it’s true, the more times you do something, the less rare it becomes.

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

The more times you do something, the easier it gets.

Does that apply to heartbreak?

The more you go through, the less painful they each become. The more inevitable they seem.

The more connections you make, the less you believe it’s one in a million.

Does that give you more hope, or less?

So, when moments of time are memorialized, when eyes that I’ve seen once, twice, a thousand times, become pieces of a puzzle, what then?

Blocks of memories that shape me. Each and every one of my heartbreaks picked apart, analyzed, overanalyzed, metaphors that span from the grounds of the earth to the sun and the moon. Each sentence spoken, questioned. Each lip bite, each finger trail, each blink, glorified. It all stays with me. It all sighs within me.

Would you want to be immortal?

Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones, forgotten, allowed to fade into the background.

And that, is the tragedy of what it is to be loved by a writer, oh how lucky it is to be loved by a writer.

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Are we the only species that are desperately worried about getting hurt?

No, don’t show how much you care. Filter your smile. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Keep your arms wrapped around your own neck.

We do everything in our power to prevent the shattering of our own hearts. We build cages and walls, hoping to disappear behind the veil of cool anonymity. And yet, every once in a while, our souls get tired of being protected. We wake up ready for more.

“Will you do me the kindness of asking me something personal about myself”

However, after such a long time in hibernation, your body isn’t used to it anymore. It isn’t used to the gentle caress of someone’s care. It isn’t used to the tender touch of someone’s words. Of their eyebrows scrunching together, in worry.

Your body is shocked, confused. It tenses, one muscle at a time. One vertebrate at at time. Waiting. Waiting. You take a step back, an impulse.

Can you believe that they care? Will they turn around and speak the words you’ve been afraid of? Will they whisper them along the grapevine, inevitably reaching the depths of your wounds?

I used to think that emotional intimacy was easy. I used to think that it came naturally to me. Maybe it did. Maybe it does. I never used to understand the notion of not wanting to understand someone’s soul. Someone’s heart. The inner workings of their minds.

I love falling in love.

It takes extra, added effort to not notice their eye movements when they bring up their parents. To not see the way their jaw clenches when a number pops up on their phone.

Maybe I just love understanding. Maybe I love dissolving into them. Maybe I love the ways in which my eyes lose sight of my fingers in theirs. Maybe I love the immersion between two souls.

My therapist tells me that I need to feel my anger. I chuckle to myself as she stares at me, knowing my family often only sees the anger in me.

But what if I’m too tired to keep feeling it?

My mom tells me my “I don’t cares” are a telltale sign of caring too much.

But what if I desperately didn’t want to? What if it just hurts me more?

“Vulnerability is fucking scary as hell when you build a self based on being enough for everyone else and not everyone else’s problem”

A friend said this to me recently.

I stopped in my tracks, my heart crawling back up my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up. The utter fear of being someone else’s problem. The disgust — oh god the shame — of being someone that requires to be picked up, again, and again and again.

Life has thrusted that upon me before. Many times. Many, many times. And the tears that would well in my eyes had far less to do with the situation I was in, and far more to do with the sheer dread of forcing everyone’s attention onto me.

Vulnerability isn’t giving a well written speech about the ups and downs of life’s hardship. It isn’t laying out all of the obstacles you’ve endured, nodding along gently as you watch water form in their eyes, coaxing them and comforting them through your well rehearsed production. It isn’t taking a bow as they thank you for opening your heart to them. It isn’t patting yourself on the back, as you step up on a pedestal of emotional intimacy.

It’s..

It’s the stutter in your voice as you drag out your deepest wants. It’s the shake of your hands as you twirl your hair, waiting for them to reciprocate. It’s the pitter patter of your heart, was I too much? Did I say too much?

But what is a life lived passively?

The building blocks that piece me together are made up of passion. For writing, reading. Of love, for family, friends. Of needing validation, reassurance. From people who, for far too long, described me as a foreign being. The self they portrayed to me was disconnected from the self I proclaimed to be. But those bite sized pieces from them still kept me whole. Still crawled on-top of the ounces of my self worth and rewarded me with the knowledge of being complete.

Pieces within me started to poke me. Attack me. A virus from the inside. A cancer slowly clawing its way through my chest, my heart. But still, their words made me whole.

So what happens to the shape of me when it all falls apart? The blob that was once seen as a full figure, now needing validation from others. And yes, wow, how exciting it is to receive validation!

Am I pretty? And funny? And smart? Do my dreams matter? Am I good at what I do? Yes, yes, yes, yes.

But wait no, where are you going? Why don’t you stay a while?

No? Oh.

Okay.

Maybe one day I’ll learn to mould the clay that sits in a puddle at my own feet, craving to be held.

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If I could categorize them. My ultimate heartbreaks. I’d categorize them in 3 different parts.

The first, broke my heart. Irrevocably.

The second, broke my mind. Inconsolably.

The third, broke my soul. Irreversibly.

The power of threes.

Some days I wonder. I wonder if I’ll have the honor of feeling that level of depth again.

For a moment there, I almost forgot. I almost forgot what a privilege it is, it was, to have loved.

If I were to never love again, do you think that the love I gave was enough? It wasn’t nearly long enough.

But, was it enough for it to be felt? Was it enough to sense the trail of my hands down their spine?

Was it enough to feel my beating heart, the catch in my breath?

If I were to never love again, would that mean that my love ran out? That the vessel I poured my heart out into, ran dry?

If I were to never love again, would the love I gave stay suspended in time? Would it hang from the sky, the ceilings, delicately tied to embers of the stars, to roots, leaves of the trees?

Or would it diminish. Slowly. Would it perish into the night, no longer holding the weight of my gaze, the weight of my hurt, of my burn?

Do I have the right to grieve the possibility of never having my heartbroken again? The rise and fall of unpredictability. The rush of interest, the batting eyes, the skipped heartbeat. The slow plateau of it all. The routine, the inevitable predictability. Knowing how they think, how they move, how they feel. Catching their hand before it falls to their side, without having looked up from your phone. The steady decline. The anxiety of missed calls, questions unanswered. The stutter in your voice.

A familiar pattern. One that I no longer feel capable of longing. But one that I sometimes miss. And by sometimes, I mean, in the quiet moments of reading. In the quiet breaths of watching two people fall in love. Of remembering. Remembering what it was like, to have once held my heart on my sleeve.

TW: talks of suicide

The Wedding People by Alison Espach was a masterpiece. I don’t say that lightly. It reeled me in, hooked me and left me undone.

Phoebe was on the verge of taking her own life. She had lived her entire life trying to be perfect. Living the textbook life. Went to grad school, got married, became a professor. No surprises, nothing untoward. Straightforward.

And then.. her husband left her.

Her world collapsed.

Life is strange.

One of my closest and dearest friends, only entered my life less than 6 months ago. During objectively one of the worst periods of my adult life.

My current career was not even remotely on the horizon 1 year ago.

My roommate and best friend came into my life less than 3 years ago (nonetheless curtesy of my devil ex.)

When Phoebe walked into the extravagant hotel, ready to take her own life, the last thing she was expecting was to be mistaken as a wedding guest. Even more so, she was not expecting to fall in love with, none other than, the groom.

Life is strange.

Every line pulled on my heart strings, a reminder of what my life could have looked like, could theoretically still look like, if I continued to pretend to be someone that I was not. That I am not.

The reality is though, and something that Phoebe learns throughout the book, is genuinely genuinely, who the fuck cares? Who cares if you embarrass yourself? Who cares if you are the loudest person in the room? Who cares if you say every single thing that your heart feels? Who cares if you do something that not everyone agrees with?

There are disappointments everywhere. Someone is bound to be unhappy with your decisions. Someone is bound to be projecting their own vulnerabilities onto you.

As long as you are operating from a place of authenticity. Then. Who. Cares.

I first learned that lesson at 18.

I learned that lesson again at 22.

And most recently at the ripe age of 26.

Every single time I try to morph and fit into the version that others want to see me in, I regret it.

And let me just say, as a former lover, as a fairly direct and blunt person. I have never once regretted telling someone I love them. I have never once regretted explaining my transparent thoughts. I have never once regretted getting a tattoo, a piercing.

I have however, regretted keeping my mouth shut for someone else’s comfort. For turning a blind eye from the person that I want to be. That I so desperately need to be now.

I owe it to the 18 year old version of me. The one who was hysterically crying on the floor, to continue living my life authentically. I’ve thought of her a lot. Especially lately.

It’s nearly been 10 years since her, and some days I still feel transported back.

Her and I are one person. Logically I know that. But really, we aren’t. She had the illusion of faith shattered in one fell swoop. She had her innocence strangled from her, one hand gripping her neck, the other wiping her tears away.

I’m less shocked now. Maybe that isn’t a good thing. I’m not sure. But, I expect the unexpected. I expect the failures, expect the disappointments. The only consistency I’ve come to know is deeply rooted in inconsistency.

Loneliness attaches itself to you. So much so, that you don’t even realize that this is what you’re feeling.

Life is strange.

Some days I’ll be surrounded by strangers, and still feel a warm hug wrapped around me.

Other days, I’ll be with someone who, on paper, should know me. I look into their eyes, hug them, and my heart somersaults. My heart knows, she always knows.

Some people bring out the loneliness in you.

Others remind you that the cloth you were made from attaches to a loose string.

So yes. I do think it was enough. I do think the love I poured out of my bleeding heart did make an impact. It did stain. It did imprint in the veins of those that came across my path.

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I’ll let you in on a little secret.

Being around someone who hates you will change everything.

Not loudly. But quietly. You have to understand. They love you fiercely, at first. But not really. Not the you that exists. The you that they want. The you that benefits them.

And then you show your dreams, you show your passions, you expose your vulnerabilities. You notice the small ways their face scrunches up as you’re speaking. The disgust in their eyes as you’re crying.

I know you might be thinking, “well, that could never be me. I’d never allow that to be me.”

I understand. I never thought it could be me either.

However.

It will change the way your eye catches itself in the mirror. It will change the way you decide “should I have this next bite?”

It will change the excitement in your voice, afraid of loving the wrong thing. Everything was the wrong thing. It will change the way you receive compliments (spoiler: you won’t.) It will change the way your arms dangle beside you as you walk, for fear of being too seen.

It will make your heart race the moment you sit down. Productive. Need to be productive.

It will make tears well up in your eyes when you see them across the room, knowing that the look they’re giving you, will be a lecture later on. It will make you second guess your next drink, your next joint. It will make you second guess your jeans, your top. Baggy, baggier. Can I shrink even further? Please?

It will also make you louder. It will make you more fearless. If the person I love, and who says they love me can see me this way, does anything else matter?

It will make you raise your voice, though you never had before. It will make you demand to be heard, by any means necessary. You’ll feel like the perpetrator, and they’ll tell you as much. It will make you question every single thing you thought you knew about yourself. It will make you question your heart, your soul. Can I truly be that selfish? How bad of a person must I be?

It’ll make you crave their recognition, at first. That thirst will then slowly turn bitter in your mouth. Each word that goes unmatched by its counterpart action will burn a hole inside of you.

You’re confused, you’re just not smart enough to understand.

But you’re not, and you are.

You just don’t want to. You don’t want to see that you were so so wrong. That you could be so wrong about a person. What will people say? You already know what they’ll say.

Everyone will confirm everything that she, he, they said to you – selfish, stupid, naive, spoiled.

What else could reality be, if not what’s being said to you?

However.

The more you like yourself the more you are willing to immediately show yourself.

Not the idealized version they perceive of you.

To come face to face with the knowledge that 99% of the people who have romantically entered your life have only liked the version of you that they’ve created in their heads–well–it’s a tough pill to swallow.

It’s an even tougher pill to swallow to know that you allowed that perception to occur. More than that, you encouraged it. Who wouldn’t want to be seen as perfect? And you, yes you, could be perfect, if you just tried hard enough.

You could be perfect if you kept your mouth shut. If you sat still. Dimmed your reactions.

You could be perfect if you didn’t show the way your heart burned, raged, yelled.

You could be perfect if you didn’t let them in on your secret–that your mind has constant thoughts. Constant.

And yes, they go blank face to face with fear.

They crawl back to the space inside their minds to be safe. To be protected.

But what if I liked sharing every thought in my head? What if I liked expressing the things that pop in my mind?

I create the safety in my space, first and foremost.

I share the thoughts with myself, with the people who love me. A reminder, time and time again, that my life is full of love. My life is full of people who uplift me when I’m down.

So who am I to bring someone into my orbit that demands otherwise?

Honey, the sun might rise and fall, the beauty of it shining bright. But the moon, oh the moon awakens the soul.

It could’ve killed me. All of it could have. Years and years and years. I’m sure of it. But it didn’t.

And thank god for that.

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Open the car door, look into my eyes, smile – just enough for me to see the pupils in your eyes dilate. Rest your head on me, stroke my arm, laugh – just enough to forget that I was once incapable of it. Trace my nose, pinch my cheeks, breathe – just enough to feel the rise and fall of your chest.

The people you love will hurt you. Of course they will. Inevitably they will.

You’re cutting open your chest, taking out your beating, red heart, and holding it in your fragile palms. You helplessly look over, trying to hold eye contact. Trying to plead with them, beg them, love them into holding your heart steady.

With shaky limbs you transfer the weight of what you once had to carry, and hand it over to someone else.

How silly it was to forget that after hours, after days, an organ will die in the presence of oxygen.

It’s 11 PM and I’m listening to music, headphones blasting, walking down a familiar street. I couldn’t imagine a happier time.

I see a couple on the sidewalk.

He walks in front of her. She trails back. I know her.

Not the stranger in front of me. But rather, I know her mind. I know that she’s desperately waiting for him to notice. To notice that she’s no longer in line with his step. I know that her heart is breaking the longer they walk. The longer her hand grows cold from the wind.

I also know the way in which he’s going to tuck her hair behind her ears, kiss her eyelids and the top of her head – making her forget all together, the pain that he brought on.

I turn up the music in my ears and silently pray, silently vow, that I will never know that pain again. I will never allow someone to rip off the shreds of self, of identity, of my esteem, again.

I sing, loudly, not giving a fuck who can hear. I jump when the beat drops, and bop my head when the chorus comes on.

I pop an edible and realize I’ve forgotten the last time I felt this free. Forgotten the last time I felt untethered. The last time I felt safe enough to let go.

Do we, as a collective, crave emotional intimacy?

Does it matter if that intimacy is real.. or not?

What dictates emotional intimacy as fabricated versus genuine?

I’ve learned something. Rather, I’m learning something. (Another day, another lesson, I suppose?)

I’m learning the meaning behind emotional intimacy.

You meet someone and you think there might a spark, a connection even. You chat with them, see the glimmer in their eyes as they laugh with their whole body. You see the quiet dimming as you bring up past relationships, family dynamics, career.

You scrunch your eyebrows together. You’re curious, but you don’t push.

Eventually, and I mean, eventually, you let a sentence or two slip as you’re nursing your latest drink (or rather, joint.) The conversation develops. You learn something new about them. They learn something new about you.

You lean your head in, wanting to absorb the way their hands pinch their knuckles, the fabric of their shirt. Worried that the next thing they might reveal could scare you off. Could it? Should it?

I thought I knew. Maybe I did. Maybe I’m unlearning and relearning what I’ve always known. However, for far too long, others have felt too comfortable speaking at me, rather than to me.

I considered it a strength. In fact, I relied my self worth on it. I relied my entire being on how vulnerable the other person could feel. Every now and again, I would stop and think: would I be able to share the same sequence of my own thoughts? But then I’d think, well does that even matter? I’m needed here. I’m needed.

Maybe that’s something they still do, maybe I don’t let it bother me anymore. Maybe I don’t care because I’m conscious of what projections they put on me.

Maybe I no longer worry if the other person wants to hear my thoughts, because maybe, just maybe, I want to hear my thoughts.

For the first time in my entire adult life, I’ve become unburdened by responsibility.

Before now, I had never known a time where the only thing that was allowed to live in my mind was: me. Selfishly me.

It changes things. It does. I’m no longer thinking how the flip of my hair is being received. The way I chew on my lip when I’m nervous.

Am I being too flirty? Not enough? Am I smiling too much, not enough? When am I supposed to stop making eye contact? Will they think that I’m not listening, that I don’t care? Will they stop needing me?

I’m now solely thinking – am I able to laugh? Am I able to speak my mind, without worry? Am I able to live in moments of silence, without jumping to the rescue?

Me, me, me.

Congratulations. I say to myself. You’ve achieved the beauty behind the permanence of impermanence.

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“For the one you love? Anything. You unmake the world and build a new one. You do anything to give them what they need.”

There is a strange relief that courses through my bones when my heart feels a twinge of sadness.

A solace that escapes my mouth when tears leak down my cheeks.

An ease that feeds into my veins when my heart skips a beat.

A comfort I lean into when I feel my heart breaking in two.

The smile that appears on my face, with the quiet acknowledgement: I’m not numb.

My heart is not new to grief.

Instinctively, we want to believe we are unaffected by the things that happen to us. We want to pretend that other people’s actions don’t shape us, that their choices don’t seep into the way we move through the world.

But inevitably, they do.

The things that happen to us, whether we controlled them or not, change us.

They change the way we interact with the world. They change what decisions we make. They change how we show up for ourselves, for others.

They change our perspective on the sun that sets. On the rain that falls.

We chase pleasure, time and time again. And we should, right?

In a world filled with tragedy, heartbreak – with loss and grief. The tangible moments clearly hang onto instant gratifications.

The moments that remind us that we’re alive – fight desperately between a thin line of reckless and necessary.

The actions we take to elevate our heart rate, have to be a healthy dose of both steady, and unpredictable.

I don’t know how this is going to end, but I am going to enjoy the time being.

I don’t know if they will hurt me, but my excitement precedes my fear.

Some days. Well. Most days, I believe I’m fine. And I am. Fine, that is.

But then, I’ll read a sentence in my book and I’ll physically feel the stitches that once wrapped my heart together, rip apart, seam by seam.

I’ll clutch my chest, gasp for air and now, all of a sudden, I’m there and no longer here, on my green comforters. No longer in my warm orange lighting.

I’m visualizing your face, I’m remembering your words. I’m reminded, after far too long, that yes, some things are in fact allowed to just be.

I’m reminded that, even if it was all in my head, my head is a real place to live in too.

I’m reminded that the permanence of impermanence exists before anything else.

I’m reminded that declarations of love are not found in the grand gestures, not found in empty words, but rather found in the small whispers. Found in consistency.

For far too long, my normalcy was instability. For my entire adult life, in fact, instability was what I deemed to be love. I knew the patterns. I was good at knowing the patterns. I liked having puzzles to solve. I liked having a problem I could weed out.

I got used to tip toeing, I got comfortable not knowing what to expect of the day. To me, that’s what being in a relationship entailed.

But so desperately, I wanted to be seen. Doesn’t everyone?

I want to be remembered for the way my eyes droop when I’m close to sleep but not quite there.

For the streams of thoughts I allow straight from my brain to my mouth.

For the tears that well up in my eyes when anger, passion, soar in my heart.

For the words and letters I write in the margins of my books.

For the coffee I make in the morning, just a touch of oat milk.

For the scars along my body, spanning decades.

For the curve of my mouth when thoughts spur in my head.

Everyone experiences a different version of us. We, in turn, experience a different version of all those around us.

Our perceptions of them are rooted in our own projections, our fears, our wants, our needs – and of their vulnerabilities. Both in the ways they align with ours, and divide.

I can’t help but wonder how I’m to be perceived by my person, whenever or whomever that may be.

But. Something I’ve come very clear to know and understand, is that I refuse to be seen in a light of fear. Of defeat.

I don’t want to be seen, or known, with the lens of needing to be fixed, needing to be saved. I refuse to step down from the limelight to placate anyone else. Not in this lifetime, or the next.

I wonder if my perception will finally be rooted in strength, in humor, in curiosity.

In ways that mirror my 12 year old self  – every wall of her bedroom was painted a different neon color: orange, green, blue, yellow.

With the fearless bellow of her off-pitched singing, amongst those very same walls.

With the carelessness of her head thrown back in manic laughter.

As I find my way back to her, I know that love will find its way back to me.

After all, love will find you in your living, not your longing.

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A blank piece of paper.

Folded once.

Folded twice.

Scissors cut around the edges, shapes to its desire.

I wonder what it could be?

I wonder, as the pieces fall to the ground.

What, now, could become from the scraps of once was.

Most days I feel whole. I am taped up. Scraps that have fallen to the floor, collected, dusted and brought back on.

I get confident. Too confident. Feeling the unwavering strength of double sided tape patched and patched and patched.

But then. A knife comes through and tears it right up.

Or perhaps a nail.

Or even a dull doorknob.

Snowflakes are so loved. Their shapes a unique flare of their short lived existence.

They fall mercifully on your tongue, flutter on your eyelashes, litter the floor we walk on.

But what happens when they melt? What happens when they shift.

We get addicted to the newness. To the glory of something untouched.

But, doesn’t something become more pure overtime? Doesn’t it serve, obey, master, through wave after wave of purpose.

Doesn’t it become its full form, destined for none other than the next life?

Would I recognize myself with all my pieces lodged back on?

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A phrase that I heard the other day resonates madly.

Be careful to not bleed in front of the shark.

And that’s precisely what I did. I bled and bled and bled. Not realizing, that the shark was right in front of me. Taking notes. I practically provided the playbook right into their hands.

..Then got shocked when they turned around and.. used it against me.

I used to think, quite arrogantly, that there was no way I would ever fall for a cult. I never quite bought into religion. I never really got addicted to anything. I was a smart, educated women. I was always taught to think critically. More than anything, I never fully trusted anyone. Not at first. I was an overall cautious individual.

My obsessions, or more so, hyper-fixations, were all out of curiosity. I was curious about the way the world worked, or curious about the human mind, or curious about a series of books.

So, naturally, I believed, quite heavily, that I would be exempt.

I underestimated one particularly crucial point.

Human beings are at the center of it all.

Ideologies don’t start and end with big, massive concepts that suddenly make their way into your life.

They start with human connection.

They start with slowly building trust.

They start with making you feel so utterly special.

More than that, they know exactly who to target. They too, are given the playbook. They feel out vulnerable individuals. They sniff out the ones that have been hurt, or traumatized. Those with low self esteems. They find the one insecurity someone has, and squeeze it open.

At the core of it all, reality becomes blurry.

9/8/2025

She hurt me. She hurt me more than anyone ever had before. And yet. I was worried, distraught, petrified.. that she was somewhat, somehow hurt from hurting me. At the idea that she could have felt an inch of what she’s made me feel. That she felt alone, even for a moment. That idea broke my fucking heart. I was her savior. I was the person she felt safe with. And now I wasn’t there anymore. She wasn’t here anymore.

I think back now, to that person writing this message in her phone. And I realize:

She saw how far she was able to push my boundaries back. I let her.

If I’m able to give so much of my love to someone who doesn’t carry the capacity, imagine how much deeper I’ll fall when someone opens their heart wider to make room for me.

To my core, I know the facts. I know that I left. That being said, I can’t help but question my own intuition. Question how I, of all people, allowed this to happen. And by this, I mean yes, being emotionally manipulated by someone I trusted.

I look in the mirror now, approaching on 5 months after the “exit,” and I wonder, genuinely, how I’m able to stay steady in my confidence of myself. How my ego, ironically enough, is the highest it’s ever been.

I’m reminded to not judge my past self with the information I carry now.

Perhaps because, my final act of love, was directed to myself.

My final act of love was in fact leaving.

So maybe, I no longer grieve our relationship. Maybe I hardly remember the impact you had on me. Maybe I hardly remember you in general. Were you real? Were you just a mirror of the best parts of me?

What counts as reality, if not for how you perceive the world around you? What is perception without human interaction?

I’m still not sorry for trusting. I’m still not sorry for hoping. It’s significantly easier to be a pessimist. It’s significantly easier to lose hope.

Hope and grief are two sides of the same coin. They are ultimately the prices you pay for love.

You lose hope, you gain grief.

However, you also gain knowledge. You gain experience. You gain understanding. Both of the self and of the world. You gain strength. You gain vulnerability.

There’s no hitting the rewind button, there’s no turning back. There’s only growth, there’s only forward movement and forward momentum.

I fucking love that about life. I love that we can’t redo what we’ve already done.

I love that every decision we make is cemented in history.

I love that our permanence is simultaneously temporary.

Because even then, eventually, memories fade.

You hold on dearest to the ones that imprint on you. Based in reality or not, there is the option to secure them to the depths of your brain.

There’s also the option to simply let go. To keep the moments that brought you joy. To remember the ones that didn’t, in earnest. In love, for your younger self.

And with that. Here’s to my final act of love.

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The fine line between being needed and needing

I’ve been spending a lot of time journaling, much to my, and maybe many of your surprise, for the first time in, well, years. In my defense, it’s quite hard to sit and evaluate your own feelings when you’re still stuck in survival mode.

Yes, I’ve been sharing my own thoughts and feelings with you all, with my therapist and with my very very patient and loving friends. But there is something so vulnerable and so unfiltered about writing just for yourself.

A big conclusion that’s come out of both my journaling (and my very direct therapist, sigh), is the concept of ~expectations~

Where do they come from?

Why do we store them in our own heads?

Are we feeding our attachment wounds?

Now, I want to sit here and say that I have #noexpectations for anyone based on my own lovely experiences. But, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. With friends, I seem to be very secure and confident in my own placement in their life. I know where I stand, and I love them for that.

However.. when it comes to my romantic life, I am an ~all or nothing~ gal. I either have absolutely no thoughts, feelings or expectations for the other person. Or. I have so many assumptions on both how they must feel about me (derogatory) or how they must perceive my own feelings for them (equally derogatory.)

But then.

I read these books.

And I am flooded yet again with the knowledge that these expectations are my internal conscience finding glimmers of hope in the world.

Everyone wants to feel important. Everyone wants to feel like they were fought for. Everyone, and yes I mean everyone, deserves to feel both needed and taken care of.

Two sides of the same coin.

That pretext in mind, let me introduce you all to: Quarter-Love Crisis by Jasmine Burke

Okay let me set the scene.

Maddison had everything planned, or she thought she did. A rigid five year plan. Seven, yes seven, different notebooks. And yet, she still felt extremely behind in every stage of her life.

Aiden was laid back, generally a ~go with the flow~ type of man.

Naturally, the two of them have been enemies and at each other’s throats since primary school.

You know I love a good enemies to lovers.

What better than knowing that the other person sees you at your absolute worst, sees what you believe to be your worst flaws, and instead loves you for them.

Isn’t that the ultimate goal?

Listen, I may not know much. I may not know anything at all. But.

If someone is able to look at you with fire in their eyes, do yourself a favor and lean in. Lean in so far and hope, pray, have faith, that the gaze won’t engulf you in flames, but rather keep you warm.

This book was a great reminder, above all, that things rarely ever go according to plan. That even with the most detailed wishes you put out in the world, the worst thing you could do to yourself is limit your own abilities to a flimsy timeline.

Starting over is always an option.

The fear with starting over will more likely keep someone in an unhappy, abusive, emotionally distraught situation, than it will ‘blow up your life.’

And maybe, just maybe, blowing up your life is what’s needed.

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Well well well, here we are. We made it to 2026. Who would’ve thought (literal.) It’s been quite a year. A lot of good, a lot of love, a lot to celebrate.

And also, quite frankly, in many many many ways, one of the worst years I’ve ever had (shocking, right?)

Life is truly so strange. I reflect on where I was in my life exactly a year ago and I commend myself on the levels of growth I underwent.

I commend my, ever so slightly, younger self on her ability to endure constantly. On her ability to find the ever so small silver linings. Most importantly, on her ability to keep pushing.

I have immense gratitude for my circle, for my people that kept me going. I have gratitude for my life in New York, for my job that I honestly love, for my cozy apartment.

On the bright side, looking back on my year of reads, I can so very clearly see how much of a safe space each of these books were for me.

How much of a safe space writing has been for me. The subtle hints into my inner psyche, so hidden that at times, even I didn’t notice the signs.

MUST reads

1. Olga Dies Dreaming by Xóchitl González

2. The Heiress by Rachel Hawkins

3. Wild Eyes by Elsie Silver

4. We Could Be So Good by Cat Sebastian

5. Passion Project by London Sperry

6. One Golden Summer by Carley Fortune

7. Love Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

8. I Love You So Much It’s Killing Us Both by Mariah Stovall

Don’t even think about it

1. Old Enough by Haley Jakobson

2. The Secret of You and Me by Melissa Lenhardt

3. The Pairing by Casey McQuiston

4. Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng

5. The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donoghue

6. Twisted Love by Ana Huang

7. We Do What We Do in the Dark by Michelle Hart

Could give it a try

1. The Housemaid by Freida McFadden

2. This Summer Will Be Different by Carley Fortune

3. Paradise Problem by Christina Lauren

4. Yerba Buena by Nina LaCour

5. A Beginner’s Guide to Murder by Rosalind Stopps

6. Something Wilder by Christina Lauren

7. The True Love Experiment by Christina Lauren

8. The Three Lives of Kate Cay by Kate Fagan

9. Meet Me at the Lake by Carley Fortune

10. The Phantom Prince: My Life with Ted Bundy by Elizabeth Kendall

Takes up little space in my brain

1. Kill Show by Daniel Sweren-Becker

2. Wild Side by Elsie Silver

3. Say You’ll Remember Me by Abby Jimenez

4. Wild Card by Elsie Silver

5. The Rom-Commers by Katherine Center

6. Every Summer After by Carley Fortune

7. Deep End by Ali Hazelwood

8. Ready or Not by Cara Bastone

What’s next

A phrase I’ve heard myself say to my friends in the last couple of weeks, is that I feel as though I’ve experienced every single human emotion within this last year.

If you think I’m exaggerating, I’m not.

The range has been..wide, to say the least.

The main thing I’m feeling now is complete depletion. I’m emotionally burnt out, trying to find ways to water my own soil before spreading the love (a new concept for me.)

My main focus, and priority is to finish my own book, to pour out any remaining love, grief, sadness, happiness, and everything in between, into the novel itself.

(Update: over 30k words in) (Woohoo!)

A moment of gratitude

I’m excited to keep sharing my thoughts with you all, to keep reading books that make me feel things and to ultimately keep discovering myself.

Thank you thank you thank you for every single person who’s read even one word of what I’ve written. I never thought that sharing my writing would even be remotely possible, so truly thank you.

Thank you for allowing me the space to be vulnerable, in more ways than one.

To those that have donated/subscribed/shared a kind word with me, or anything in between, I appreciate it more than I can say.

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I walk down the block to say hi to Jimmy from the corner store. He walked me home once, protecting me from a following stranger.

I walk to work, exchange pleasantries with my favorite USPS delivery man. Joe tells me of his week, his Thanksgiving, and wishes me well on the way out.

I walk to my deli, speak in Arabic to Ali as he shows me pictures of his daughters in Yemen. “The usual?” he asks as he hands me my coffees for free.

I chat with clients about their recent engagements, funerals they need to go to, the breakups they’re going through. They announce their pregnancies and embrace me.

I talk to my colleagues about politics, about our days, about the futures we’re so scared to have.

I read and get sucked into the dynamics of individuals that have other problems. A time that finally doesn’t center around what I need to process.

I write and get dragged right back into my mind. I storyboard with my roommate, I scratch it all out.

I send voice notes to my best friends that live across the ocean. I smile when I see their names light up on my screen.

I listen to new music sent by my friends, a glimpse into their heart.

I rewatch my favorite three shows, and laugh at the same jokes. Every single time.

I gaze at the Christmas lights that are placed around the neighborhood. I cry, realizing that some childhoods are made by the same streets that I’m walking through.

I sit by the window at work, and see families walk past. Children running and jumping in the air, couples walking hand in hand.

(And occasionally, Eric Andre makes an appearance.)

“The number of hours we have together is actually not so large. Please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of just leaving. Please forget your scarf in my life and come back later for it.” – Let the World Have You by Miko Harvey

What if we were mosaics of every single person we loved, of every single person that’s loved us. What if we were fragments of all the individuals that we came into contact with. With the movies we watch, with the words we read.

Relationships that last a few weeks, a few months or a few years, still leave long lasting impressions on your psyche.

Maybe it’s how you remember that someone once told you of a film, not being able to place exactly from who.

You recall the places you traveled, the memories you shared. Forgetting, for just a moment, that there were two people in that frame.

Perhaps for as long as I live, I’ll remember the music one of my ex’s shared with me. It’ll take me back to my younger self, recalling the person I was back then, how badly I needed the experiences I was yet to have.

My therapist, as always, says things to me that stop me in my tracks.

She’ll watch me blubber in between sobs and casually say “are you using logic, or are you being guided by fear?” I stop and stare at her. I blow my nose and laugh.

She laughs with me, because she knows, as well as I do, what the answer is.

I love that she allows me to laugh at myself, with myself, that she joins in with me.

She reminds me that people are complex beings. She reminds me that people don’t come with manuals. (Where I then groaned and asked her why) (She laughed) (I guess I’m funny?)

That everything we learn about a person, is essentially putting some level of trust in them and in ourselves.

We are bound to make patterns, to connect the dots. But we also cannot predict the way in which others show up in our life, in their own lives.

“Sometimes you meet someone and it’s instantly clear. They’re going to change your life. You aren’t sure how, yet. You aren’t even sure for how long. You just know that the person you were before no longer exists. You say a silent prayer to your past self as you take a step forward. You salute her as you see all the potential, the possibilities of the person you will inevitably become, when they enter your life.” – small excerpt from my book

In the simplest terms, whether something is dictated as casual, or not, some part of you changes. Some part of your DNA alters as it digests the conversations in front of you.

Words that still stick with me (up to a decade or so later)

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.” – Sylvia Plath

“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?” – Haruki Murakami

“yet love can move people to act in unexpected ways and move them to overcome the most daunting obstacles with startling heroism” – Khalid Hosseini

And all of a sudden, it makes sense why I am the way I am.

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reflections reflections reflections

This time last year I was right about to get laid off from my job for the second time (in my short tiny baby life.)

This time last year I was also getting yelled at by my ex for having lost said job.

I can’t even remember what it was like being that person.

I don’t want to remember what it was like being that person.

I was on a plane recently, and could not help but reflect on this past year. On the past couple of years, actually. Would I have done anything differently? Would I have moved with more or less logic? Would I have used my heart less?

What would that look like? Would that have even been possible? Is that possible, in general, to logic your way out of emotions?

And trust me, if there was, I would have found a way to do so by now.

Difficult questions that require difficult answers.

Ultimately, what I notice is that I go back in time to try to change the reaction others had over my own actions. But I, am a lover first and foremost. And if I changed that part of myself, if I even could, then who would I be? Other people taking advantage of my trust, of my compassion, does that fall on me? An age old question.

So, I wrote myself a little letter.

A step by step process in getting my “life” back together.

It all tied back to grief.

Because grief is, without a doubt, love that has nowhere else to go. So it stays put and waits.. and waits.. and waits, for something to prove worthy enough to pour it into.

If you don’t mind reading the unbelievably vulnerable excerpt I wrote to myself on grief.. then here you go:

Step four: you’ll grieve

You, my love, are so resilient. And the beautiful part about, well all of this, is that resilience doesn’t negate humanity. You’re allowed to hurt and grieve. You are the only person living inside your own body. You are the only one experiencing what you are experiencing. Look at the magic you can touch when you follow your gut. You, my darling, are a lover. If anyone, along the way, told you that loving is wrong, they are the ones missing out.

If this year has taught me anything, it’s that my heart is capable of loving so much more than I even realized. And – please God this is not a challenge – what a beautiful thing to know that even amongst the worst of times (and I mean the worst of times), I can still find a way to not be bitter, and can still find a way to redirect my heart.

Now.. without further ado…

Ready or Not by Cara Bastone

I just read the most beautiful rom-com novel. Dare I say one of the better ones I’ve read this year. There was a pure sense of realism, mixed in with genuine hope, with actual life trauma.. and somewhat of a realistic premise.

If you can count falling in love with your best friend, after getting pregnant with a one night stand.. realistic?

Did I get massive, insane, surprising baby fever? Perhaps. Is my age showing? I hope not.

Did I also cry and cry and cry as Eve and Shep fell in love? Oh yeah. Hell yeah.

(I also learned I’m a massive crier? Who would’ve known.)

So on the topic of reflections, Eve’s entire life turned upside down when a one night stand (yeah with protection) turned into a life long commitment (her choice! yay pro choice) of raising a little life form.

The layers to that decision were exceptionally explored in this novel.

Willa, Eve’s best friend, had been suffering from infertility. What role can a best friend play when they themselves cannot show up for you? When they try so so so hard, but seem to fail to be able to be there?

Ethan, the infamous baby daddy, who, got back together with his on-again-off-again girlfriend, was battling the reality of this child, and the reality of his girlfriend’s devastation of said child.

Shep, oh my honey little tiny baby, Shep. Willa’s older brother, and Eve’s long time friend. He was the first person to be genuinely happy for Eve. The person who made sure she was fed, made sure she had an outlet, made sure to remind Eve that she, and she alone, had the strength to do this.

I love a good classic slow burn. I love how they displayed their friendship that was (obviously) not just a friendship.

In any case, what is a relationship if not for a deep friendship mixed in with deep attraction?

Priorities change throughout our life time, and I think it’s so so so important to verbalize how that can alter different friendships, and also keep friendships exactly the same.

Willa and her husband were each other’s people, and even though Eve has been and always will be her sister, it’s valuable to name that Eve, while pregnant, could and would not be Willa’s support as she continued to deal with her infertility, and vice versa.

The raw display of mental spirals, of thought processes, of experiencing a massive life change, and figuring out how to deal with it, alone, was exceptional.

I’m so happy that one of my many beautiful and wonderful friends gifted me this novel. My perfect love language <3

2 Seconds of Housekeeping!

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Some updates re me:

Routine is back in action! Love her, crave her, need her.

Been coaching at [solidcore] for almost a full month, and it’s been great. As a good friend of mine said, this is the perfect job for a theatre kid who does not have the talent for a theatre kid (aka me) (it’s okay I know singing is not one of my talents.)

Ali Hazelwood.. I need to have a word with you.

Her books have been such a consistent hit or miss for me. I have wretchedly, totally, wholly, hated her books. And have fallen onto my knees out of pure love over the way she describes her character’s emotions.

Deep End, however, was a mixed bag.

For a near 500 page book, there was still a lot left to interpretation. I could have done with a little less exploration of side characters (aka Pen) and more with Lukas losing his mom, with Scarlett leaving an abusive household etc etc etc.

I saw a quote while I was in the middle of reading this particular book, and it stopped me and shook me to the core.

I think in large part, that aching realization of being seen for the first time, is exactly what Deep End tries to describe through the journey between Scarlett and Lukas.

Scarlett was not used to being loved for who she was as a person. She believed, deep down, that in order to be loved, she needed to be perfect at everything.

And Lukas, well, Lukas denied himself any form of pleasure in his life. He believed it made him dependent on something, or in this case, someone else. That terrified him. He always always always had his emotions in check. And more than that, he always knew exactly how much to give and how much to pull away.

He had reams of self control.

And he did, in fact, pull away.

He pulled back so hard and so fast, that Scarlett once again convinced herself that even something that felt so right to her, could still be wrong. That, once again, she was not enough.

A theme: people feeling like they’re not enough.

A question: where does that mentality start?

A follow up: why why why does that grip so much of our reality?

Scarlett’s thought spirals were a constant. As a ~personal~ avid anxious over thinker, I deeply relate to the instinctual need to shrink yourself in order to make room for others.

To discard and disregard your own needs for the pursuit of someone else’s happiness.

So. Here’s what really stuck with me.

Lukas and Scarlett had a natural draw of magnetism towards one another.

Technically they had so much going against them. As in, Lukas was Pen’s ex. Pen was Scarlett’s best friend. You see the issue? Did I not mention that before?

And yet, they found themselves drawn to one another. Incapable of being in the same room without their skins physically aching at the idea of not being in each other’s presence.

What is too much?

Was it “too much” that Lukas, after denying himself any parcel of pleasure, only ever allowed himself happiness with and for Scarlett?

Was it “too much” that Scarlett felt safe enough to only be vulnerable and open with Lukas?

Why is the immediate assumption that one person’s heart being poured out into the open, is the thing that takes up too much space. Rather than, the alternative, being the person receiving the love, is in fact too small to handle it.

To be clear, I do live in fear of being perceived as too much.

Call it years and years of being around and with individuals that forced me to make myself smaller in order to take up more space themselves, in order to fit more of themselves in the equation.

Is being seen as “too much” just a disguise of pure insecurity? Of being threatened with the presence that the other person takes up?

This ideology, as I’ve noticed, is only exasperated in environments where you’re rewarded for being quiet, adaptable, pleasing.

“Too much” becomes code for visible.

For taking up emotional oxygen that someone else claims as their own.

Sigh.

Something to think about.

2 Seconds of Housekeeping!

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I’m at my best when I’m reading & when I’m writing. It’s automatically clear to me that there are thoughts I’m actively avoiding when I stop reading (or..yeah when I ghost y’all.)

So here I am. Sigh. Pushing myself to dig through the emotions I’m feeling about the latest and greatest read:

Every Summer After by Carley Fortune

First I need to disclose that I previously read and GUSHED over One Golden Summer, which I only realized was a sequel after the fact.

(and if you missed it.. read below)

Since that was such an over the top 5/5, I came into this book with some predisposed expectations.

The premise:

Persephone (Percy) and Sam develop a quick friendship. We, as readers, see two parts of the story play out. The past and present. Fortune takes us through each summer that Sam and Percy spent together, while also flashing forward to their glaring separation at 30 years old.

If there’s one word I would use to describe them both…

It would be avoidant.

People feel love at different points in their lives. It’s a rare and beautiful thing to first know love at fourteen. Something I (unfortunately) know all too well.

But it’s also terrifying to feel something so big before you even understand yourself. To love deeply when everything in your life, your body, your world, is still changing.

I related to Percy. She was bold and outspoken, a writer at heart who loved with her entire soul. She carried her anxiety and guilt like armor.

I did also (try) to understand Sam. He was coming into his own amidst losing his father, forced to be the perfect son.

However..

To simply put it, I wanted to know more. I wanted to know more of what Sam was thinking and feeling. I wanted to see more of their connection when they reunited.

I wanted to see more of Percy’s self development. To see what brought her back into writing in her adulthood.

Too often, she felt like half a person without Sam. And while I believe love can elevate you, it shouldn’t be the only thing that lights you up.

On the flip side, I knew nothing of Sam’s life.

I wanted to feel and see and visualize the life that they built together, after not speaking for over a decade.

Let’s take a step back for a moment.

I had a conversation with a friend the other day

They didn’t believe it to be possible to still be in love with someone if you don’t speak to them on a regular basis.

I adamantly disagreed.

It’s true that people change. Their habits, their lifestyle, even their goals and dreams.

But does a soul change?

When a soul connects with another, does it ever forget?

In my opinion, there’s also a difference between compatibility and love. Love is without control, it happens whether we want it to or not. In many ways, it’s inevitable.

Compatibility, however, should be worked on. Communication and compromise can often be built.

Every Summer After reminded me that sometimes you don’t get over the person you love. You just learn to live around it.

Maybe, just maybe, when two souls recognize each other, time and distance don’t make them strangers again.

A little reflection

My first draft of this post was completely void of my own emotions. I went in speaking about avoidance, just to be sucked into the same self-created cycle. It’s hard to be vulnerable, especially when rejection and judgement could be at the other end of opening yourself up.

It got me thinking. Percy and Sam had predisposed notions of themselves. Something they had in common: believing that they weren’t good enough.

Percy held Sam to such a high light that she genuinely believed she couldn’t fit into his world. Sam was in his brother’s shadow his entire life, and although he never wanted to change himself, he constantly felt lesser than.

The actions that led to them not speaking was a self proclaimed validation of their biggest fears. That they weren’t enough. They each, separately, basked into that idea and spiraled into trying to mold themselves into different people that would be enough for someone else.

In the process, they lost themselves.

Finding each other, meant reconnecting with their own hearts.

It’s unfortunate that fear can oftentimes tighten its grip around our voice, leaving us in our own silent world. That, however, is called being human.

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Heeeeyyyy

I’ve been gone, please don’t be upset. If it makes you feel any better, I also took a break from reading (I know and yes, you should be scared.)

But now that my head is cleared, I’ve finished my 31st book of the year (woohoo) and I’m back in business.

What better book to come out of a reading hiatus from other than The Rom-Commers by Katherine Center.

Don’t worry – we’ll get to that.

First, let’s talk a little bit.

Almost two months ago, I went through a very…let’s just say, bizarre breakup. And by bizarre, I mean my therapist, and I quote, spent 15 minutes saying “Wait what the fuck? What the fuck?” and she was so real for that and that is why I love her. We then spent the rest of the time laughing at the pure weird garbage that happens in life sometimes, and you all know that I am nothing without my comedic relief.

However, if I was being real and vulnerable for a moment, then I’d say that the relationship itself nearly broke me, so the breakup in many ways, was a safe haven.

Something I’d been thinking about, quite a lot, between writing about love, and reading about love and everything in my life being consumed around love – is how was I able to stand reading about such unconditional fairy tale love, when things were going to complete sh*t?

But. Then I realized.

My friends quite literally bent their knees and lifted me up, over the past year and years. My family lied down ready for me to fall, and caught me far before I hit the ground. Near strangers have bought me coffee at work. People I hardly knew came out to support me while I trained to be a [solidcore] coach (yeah yet another side quest yada yada.)

I know, very very very well, what love is supposed to look like. I see my parents well into 30 years of their marriage, and gleam at how lucky I am to confidently say that they not only still love each other, but still learn new things about each other, still go on new adventures alongside each other.

I look at my sister and my brother, and know that I’ve been so blessed with built in bodyguards, built in best friends.

I look at my roommate, and my heart soars at how often I’ve told her every single thought that’s entered my head, with her not only discarding any judgement, but also joining in on my thought spirals.

I’ve gotten through this year, through these last few years, BECAUSE of how confidently I believe in love. BECAUSE of how much I know in my heart, that soulmates exist, both platonically and romantically.

The Rom-Commers, as ridiculous as it was, and it was ridiculous, only confirms my point.

Let me give you a small overview first. Two writers, one goal: to write a good rom-com. Charlie (the famous screenwriter), doesn’t believe in love, and Emma (yeah you guessed it) is a hopeless romantic. Both are troubled with many many many tragedies in their lives, lots of trauma and heartache. And yet, they, obviously, fall in love with each other while writing about love.

The sweet joy of ironic cliches.

Stepping back for a moment.

I keep waiting for myself to break and fall apart. And don’t get me wrong, I had my moments after the breakup where I did break and did fall apart. But since then, not only have I been fine, but I’ve been, dare I say, happy.

So, trust me when I say, I know that the quote above is such an oversimplification. In fact, this entire blog is an oversimplification. Bad shit does happen, and traumatic things do happen that make you question everything about yourself, about the world, about your purpose in it all. But the one thing that I truly do think I can count on, is the fact that life will do whatever the fuck it wants, whether I’m happy or not. Whether my perspective is one way or another.

There is humility in being vulnerable. There is a wild and deep blow to the ego to admit that you care. Yet truly truly truly, thank GOD you care. Thank GOD you are in tact with your emotions. Thank GOD the world hasn’t beaten you down so much that you no longer feel. And yeah, I’ve been there too. Being numb is no joke.

So to answer my original question: If every love ends in heartbreak, would you still choose to love?

To be clear, every love does end in some heartbreak. Whether we spend our entire life with someone, and they pass or we pass. Whether we move away from our friends and family. Whether we grow apart from the people we hold dearest. Heartbreak is almost always inevitable.

However. I would. I would dive in head first.

Overall I rate the book a solid 4/5.

I think there could have been more exploration of their actual love after the big speech declaration. I would have wanted to know what that actually looked like, dating a famous screenwriter or how Emma interacted with his ex-wife. I think there was a bomb of “he might die” that was only explored for one or two pages. Which definitely took the surprise element out of it.

Katherine Center seemed very cautious in making her readers sad. And although, I love that and know that’s the point of a little silly little rom com. I do think that, as she said in the book, sometimes a little bit of sadness only makes the happy moments bigger and better.

Thank you for coming with me on this vulnerable and highly sappy journey.

My next read: And Then He Sang A Lullaby by Ani Kayode Somtochukwu

I put this book down but I am back to it!! A first by this author. Looks like it will be achingly sad and utterly beautiful. The novel will explore what it means to be gay in Nigeria. What it means to withstand laws that go against your own love.

Read along so I can cry about it with someone <3

2 Seconds of Housekeeping!

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