And notice the things I leave behind.

I wear a smile, I play along,

While hiding the places where I don’t feel strong.

When I say “I’m fine”, just to keep things light

Though my mind is fighting its own quiet fight.

I laugh it off, I brush it away,

Then carry the weight at the end of the day.

I keep my cards close, I don’t let them show,

There are parts of my heart I’m afraid to let go.

I build up walls then wonder why,

No one can see what I keep inside.

I don’t need you to walk in my shoes,

Or have all the answers, or know what to choose.

Just meet me halfway, don’t judge what you see,

And give me some room to simply be me.

When I’m at a loss for the words to say,

Don’t take my silence as pushing away.

Sometimes “I’m okay” is the easiest lie I say,

When “I need you” is what I’m trying to imply.

So if you really want to understand,

Don’t just hear me, try to take my hand.

Look past the surface, the smile, the disguise,

There’s a whole different story behind my eyes.

I’m not asking for someone to make me whole,

Or fix every crack in my tired soul.

I just want someone who can quietly see,

The parts I don’t show, but the parts that are me.

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I hate taking medicine.

I know that sounds normal. A lot of people don't like taking medicine. Some people don't like the taste, some don't like swallowing tablets, and some are simply scared of side effects.

For me, it is different.

I have a real fear of medicine. No matter how sick I am, my first thought is always that I should try to recover without taking anything. Fever, headache, stomach pain whatever it is, I usually try to wait it out. Most of the time, I do get better without medicine.

Only when things become too bad and I have no other choice do I finally see a doctor. And even then, I don't just take whatever is prescribed. I research it. Sometimes I research the medicine much more than I probably need to. I want to know what it is, what is inside it, what it can do, what the side effects are, and whether I really need it.

People might think I am overthinking.

I don't know, Maybe I am.

But there is a reason for it.

My fear of medicine goes back to my childhood. It is connected to something traumatic that happened to me, and whenever I see medicine, a part of me remembers that time.

I have never told my parents about it.

I have never told a friend.

I have never told anyone close to me.

This is actually the first time I am talking about it outside of myself.

I was still in primary school when it happened.

I was an average student. My marks were never particularly good, and I wasn't confident in my studies. I was also a very quiet child. I didn't talk much because I was bullied at school. If someone hurt me, I would either cry or stay quiet. I didn't know how to stand up for myself.

Because my grades weren't good, I often felt like I was disappointing my parents.

My teachers complained about me too. One teacher was especially strict and rude with me. She was never someone I felt comfortable talking to. At one parent-teacher meeting, she complained about my studies, and my parents told her to be strict with me and punish me if necessary, as long as my grades improved.

I don't think they knew how deeply that affected me.

I was already struggling, but nobody really asked me why.

I was weak in Maths, Science, and Social Studies. I slowly started improving in Science and Social Studies, but Maths became the subject I feared the most, mainly because of the teacher.

He used to scare me. He would tell me that he would give me low marks or complain about me to my parents if I didn't do what he wanted. At that age, those threats felt huge to me.

Then one day, I became very sick at school.

My stomach was hurting badly, and my exams were coming up. I genuinely didn't feel well, but I also didn't want to go to school because I was scared of that teacher.

My parents thought I was making an excuse to stay home.

They told me that they had already spoken to my teacher and that she would take care of me. They told me that studying was important.

So I went to school.

I remember crying while going there.

I somehow got through the school day. By the end of the regular classes, I was feeling much worse. We had an extra Maths class after school, and I knew I couldn't sit through it.

So I went to my class teacher, Shreya Ma'am, and told her that I wasn't feeling well and couldn't attend the extra class. I asked her to call my parents.

She told me to sit at my desk with my head down while she brought medicine for me and called my parents.

So I went back to the classroom and sat there.

At that time, the cameras in our classrooms were not working because the school was changing its camera system. There were cameras in the corridors, but not inside the classrooms.

While I was sitting there with my head down, (That bastard) Maths teacher came into the classroom.

He shouted at me for not attending his class.

I was already scared of him, so I didn't answer.

He came closer and threatened me again. He told me that he would fail me in his subject and complain to my parents that I was making excuses and not studying.

I didn't say anything.

He left.

A few minutes later, he came back.

He didn't say anything this time. He simply put a medicine on my desk and walked away.

I thought my class teacher had sent it for me.

So I took it.

I didn't know what medicine it was.

I just trusted that it was something I was supposed to take because I was sick.

I swallowed it with water from my bottle.

After some time, I started feeling strange.

I became dizzy. My body felt heavy, and my vision became blurred. I felt like I was about to lose consciousness.

Then he came back.

I could hear everything around me, but I didn't have enough strength to properly lift my head.

He sat beside me.

And he touched me inappropriately.

He said something that made me understand that he was not going to let me leave safely.

I was terrified.

I was crying and silently praying please god help me save me.

I didn't know what to do.

Then his phone rang, and he left the classroom.

I still felt extremely weak and confused. Everything looked blurred. Somehow, I picked up my bag and tried to leave.

I was on the second floor.

I made it to the stairs.

Then I lost consciousness.

I fell down the stairs.

I was bleeding. My knees were badly hurt, and I had also injured my head.

Later, my teacher found me and my parents came.

There was a big argument between my parents and the school. My parents were angry and asked how the school could have failed to take care of me.

But even after everything that happened, I didn't tell anyone what had actually happened inside that classroom.

I was too scared.

And somehow, the story that people believed became completely different from what I had experienced.

I was called a liar.

Management and teachers said I didn't want to come to school.

They said I didn't want to study.

They said I was making excuses.

I was already a quiet and frightened child, and nobody really gave me the chance to explain myself.

I didn't know how to speak about it and how to defend myself….

I still don't know why I couldn't say anything.

Maybe I was afraid nobody would believe me.

Maybe I was afraid of what would happen if I told someone.

Maybe I was simply a child who didn't understand how to put something so frightening into words.

For two days, I barely spoke.

Eventually, my parents changed my school.

But they never knew the real reason behind my fear.

And I never told them.

Years passed.

I grew up.

But I never forgot anything.

Even today, when I see medicine, that memory comes back.

It is not just the medicine itself. It is what it represents to me.

Being sick.

Being helpless.

Trusting someone.

Not knowing what you are being given.

Not being able to protect yourself.

And most importantly, not being believed.

That is why I research every medicine I am asked to take. I want to know exactly what I am putting into my body. I don't easily trust a prescription just because a doctor wrote it. I need to understand it myself before I can convince myself to take it.

I know this fear isn't completely logical.

I know medicine is supposed to help.

I know not every doctor is dangerous.

I know that what happened to me was not caused by medicine itself.

But the fear doesn't always work logically.

Sometimes your mind connects one thing to something that happened years ago, and even when you know better, your body still reacts.

For a long time, I thought there was simply something wrong with me.

I thought maybe I was being too paranoid.

Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing.

But now I understand where this fear came from.

It came from something that happened to me when I was a child.

And I carried it alone for years.

I never told my parents because a part of me still remembered all the times they thought I was making excuses. When I needed someone to understand me, I felt misunderstood instead.

So I stopped expecting anyone to understand.

I learned to handle things myself.

I learned to research everything myself.

I learned not to trust easily.

And somehow, that little child who couldn't speak about what happened grew into someone who still checks every medicine before taking it.

I am writing this now because I am tired of keeping it completely inside.

I don't know what will happen after I write all of this.

I don't know if my mind will finally feel lighter.

I don't know if this fear will become smaller, or if seeing medicine will still bring everything back just as it always has.

Maybe writing about it will help me.

Maybe it won't.

Honestly, I don't know

But I do know that for the first time, the memory is not staying only inside my head. I have finally put it into words. I have finally let it exist outside of me.

For years, I kept asking myself why I was so afraid of medicine, why I couldn't trust people easily, and why something that happened so long ago still had so much power over me.

Now I know the reason.

I was a child.

I was scared.

I didn't know how to speak about what happened.

And none of it was my fault.

I don't know whether writing this will finally free my mind from that memory.

But today, at least, I have stopped keeping it completely to myself.

And maybe, for now, that is enough….

Some souls are not meant to stay,

yet their presence leaves a mark

that time can never erase.

Some loves are not meant to be lived

in this world forever

yet they find a way

to remain within the heart.

You were never truly absent.

You live quietly in my prayers,

in the pauses between my thoughts,

in the stillness of certain evenings,

when your memory returns

like a gentle song

my heart still knows by name.

I have learned to let go

without learning to forget.

I have made peace with the distance,

but not with the love.

Because some love does not disappear

when people part

it simply becomes quieter,

deeper, and more sacred.

So with every breath,

I leave what I cannot hold

in His hands and whisper:

“If destiny does not bring us together

in this life,

then let my heart find you

where sorrow has no ending,

where love has no goodbye

in Your Paradise,

where I pray our souls

will meet again, eternally.”

~Meghna

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to welcome

the version of you

that came apart too easily.

Tell me.....

what wrong did you forgive in yourself,

when I have carried

enough guilt

to bury us both?

I was already waging wars

long before your leaving

became another name for love.

My childhood learned

the shape of survival

before it ever learned

the shape of safety.

You walked away.

I remained,

counting the ruins.

They stripped me

until even my bones

felt borrowed.

Bitterness nested beneath my tongue

like winter beneath the earth,

and every word I spoke

returned wearing the color of ash.

It was never mine

to rescue myself.

A child is not born

to become their own shelter.

That burden belonged

to the hands

that first promised

I would never face the dark alone.

So why does your silence

still rest across my shoulders,

heavy as an unnamed grave.....

a stone I have carried

for so long

it has mistaken my spine

for home?

I only wanted

to be the child

someone chose

without a second thought.

Not the child

love kept postponing.

Not the child

left standing in the doorway,

watching every goodbye

become another room

I had to haunt alone.

I only wanted

to believe

I was enough.

Tell me.....

what mercy

did you ever offer me,

when I was never

the one asking

to be forgiven?

I was only asking

to be loved

before I forgot

what love

was supposed to feel like.

I dreamed

of a life

that could hold my name

without trembling.

I reached

for hands

I believed were holy.

Still,

my knees memorized

the language of cold floors.

My hands grew pale

beneath the weight

of prayers

that rose like smoke

and returned

as silence.

I whispered hope

until my voice

became another ghost

wandering the halls

of an empty heaven.

Perhaps the cruelest thing about abandonment

is that it teaches a child

to become the first home

they learn to leave.

And now,

you have stolen

the small flame

I guarded beneath my ribs,

the last bright thing

that still believed

morning would come.

If you are going

to steal my fire,

then return

the home

that burned with it.

Return

the laughter

that never reached the walls.

Return

the prayers

that died

with their mouths still open.

Return

the child

who believed

love was a place,

not a person

always walking away.

Return

the faith

I wore thin

waiting for heaven

to answer.

Because I was never asking

for forgiveness.

I was asking

why the abandoned

are always expected

to become saints

for those

who made them orphans

while still alive.

And if you cannot

give me back

the home,

the fire,

the faith.....

then do not ask me

to make peace

with the ashes.

Some things

do not stop burning.

They simply learn

how to glow

where no one

thinks to look.

And somewhere beneath them,

the child

who only wanted

to be chosen

is still listening

for footsteps

that never turn back.

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Thank you for lending your heart to these words. If they stayed with you, please consider following or subscribing for more. Your thoughts, reflections, and support mean more than you know.And if you can, leave a thought below….I'd love to hear your voice. ♡

on conversations you've had lives ago?

I do,

more than i tell anyone.

I still hear you saying,

"you're meant to me,"

like it was a promise,

and not just a sentence you said most of the time.

i go back to the last real one,

before it turned into "hey" and "you good?"

before it turned into nothing,

peeling apart every sentence,

looking for a cause of death,

knowing full well

some things don't die suddenly;

they simply stop being chosen.

and i study it like it owes me answers.

i remember every word,

but i still don't understand

how something that felt like home

became a room i'm not allowed in anymore.

I gave my whole heart

to people who took it

like it was nothing special,

like hearts come in bulk,

and mine was just one more.

they pretended so well,

I believed it.

I still believe pieces of it,

even now.

grief doesn't come when you leave;

it comes months later,

at 1 a.m.,

over a conversation

that meant nothing to you,

and everything to me.

I keep looking for the wound,

so i can finally point at something and say,

there.

that's where it started dying.

maybe that's why i keep searching,

because every autopsy needs a beginning,

even when the body

has been gone for years.

but some things don't die from one cut.

they just bleed slowly,

for years,

until you're the only one still holding the body.

and the wound never healed,

not because i didn't try,

but because some cuts don't close.

they just stop bleeding out loud.

I've reread messages until the words stopped making sense.

I've cried over sentences

that you probably don't even remember typing.

and the worst part isn't the ending.

it's realizing I grieved you while you were still alive.

still texting other people,

still fine.

so yes,

i still open the file.

I still hear, "you're meant to me,"

on nights I can't sleep,

still looking for the version of me

that didn't know yet

what those words actually cost.

because sometimes,

the hardest thing to bury

isn't a person.

it's the future you built around their words.

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subscribe if you want more of this.

share your thoughts, i read every one.

people line up to buy it. influencers rush to unbox it. social media fills up with videos calling it "the future."

meta's ai glasses are no different.

sleek. impressive. they answer questions, translate in real time, identify objects, record video, let you talk to ai without touching your phone.

on paper, it's the next step.

but i can't stop thinking about the people who aren't wearing them.

someone's always watching now. you just can't tell who anymore.

Imagine you're at a café. talking about something personal. no phones out, so you assume it's private.

then you notice the guy at the next table. he's wearing smart glasses.

were they recording? did they just ask an ai to identify your face, your expression, whatever you're feeling right now.

you'll never know. that's the whole problem.

when someone points a phone at you, you notice. you can react, object, leave. with smart glasses you can't tell. there's no red light. no raised arm. just someone looking at you, normally, while a small computer on their face does god knows what.

that's what makes this different from every other piece of tech we've absorbed without asking questions.

This isn't paranoia. it's already happening.

In 2025 meta quietly changed privacy settings on its ai glasses. some ai features got switched on by default. voice interactions with "hey meta" started getting stored to improve their ai, unless you went and deleted them yourself. meta says the glasses aren't constantly recording everything. the data's tied to specific ai requests, not nonstop surveillance. fine. but the fact that they changed the defaults without most people noticing says something on its own.

Then this year, the aclu and over 70 other organizations wrote to meta directly. their point was simple: glasses that can identify strangers on the street would change what privacy means in public, permanently. not gradually. permanently.

And Around the same time, wired reported on an internal feature called "nametag." built to recognize people's faces through the glasses. meta says it was never released to consumers. maybe. but the fact that it was built at all tells you where this is headed, whether or not it ships this year.

None of this is conspiracy. it's engineers, journalists, lawyers, and privacy groups, all saying the same thing at the same time.

what actually gets me isn't the tech. it's us.

we've gotten so obsessed with convenience that we barely pause before adopting something. every launch turns into an unboxing video. every creator races to post the first review. affiliate links go live within hours.

the question is always "look what this can do."

almost never "what could this do to the people around me."

I'm not Anti-Ai

i'm against normalizing something before we understand what it costs.

social media promised connection. now we're still untangling what it did to our attention spans and our sense of reality. smartphones made photography effortless. now we're constantly negotiating what should and shouldn't be filmed. ai glasses might be the next version of that same mistake, except this time the camera is invisible.

not because the tech is evil. because it's powerful. and powerful things need harder conversations, not softer ones.

maybe these glasses really will change accessibility, travel, how we learn, how we move through the world. i actually hope they do.

but i hope we don't get so distracted by what the ai can see that we forget to ask who's protecting the privacy of everyone standing in its line of sight.

because right now, nobody's really answering that.

Note :- if this made you pause for even a second, that's enough. i'm not trying to scare anyone, just asking us to look a little closer before we hand over more of ourselves without noticing.

just be aware🤍

"You handled it so well."

Did I?

Did I actually handle it, or did I just get really good at not showing the cracks?

Grief never actually left. It just learned to sit quietly in the back of my throat, showing up at random moments, in the middle of ordinary days, when I least expect it.

Trauma I never really processed. I just packed it down, labeled it "old news," and called it moving on.

Stress I wore like it was normal. Like waking up tired and calling it a personality trait.

People who broke my trust, again and again, until I lost the ability to trust altogether. And I still gave them chances. Still showed up at family dinners, smiling, passing the food, like nothing had happened.

Even then, I wouldn't tell anyone.

Not because I was fine.

Because I hate the way people look at you once they know. That soft tilt of the head. That careful voice. That sympathy they think is comfort.

I don't want to be looked at like I'm breaking.

I'd rather carry it alone than watch someone feel sorry for me.

I wonder what they'd say if they saw the 2 a.m. version of me.

The one still editing what I should've said back then.

The one who says, "I've forgiven them," out loud but still flinches every time their name comes up.

Maybe I look like I'm managing.

Maybe I've even fooled myself into believing it, some days.

But managing isn't the same as being okay.

Most days, I'm not okay.

I've just gotten disciplined about not showing it.

I answer "How are you?" before anyone can actually ask it.

I keep moving before anyone notices I've stopped.

So no.

I didn't handle it.

I just got better at hiding it well enough that nobody asked twice.

But if I actually let someone see it, the real weight of it, would they still say I handled it well?

Or

would they finally ask if I'm okay?

It was around 12:30 in the morning when the rain started coming down hard.

I wasn’t feeling great, and honestly, I probably should’ve stayed inside. But after being cooped up for so long, the rain felt kind of impossible to ignore. So I went out anyway and let myself get completely soaked.

For a little while, I forgot about everything else. It was just the rain, the lightning, and that weird little burst of happiness that shows up when you least expect it.

Then I saw a tiny white pigeon.

It was drenched, shaking, and had nowhere to go. The rain was coming down so hard, and every time thunder rolled, it seemed to shrink a little more. I couldn’t just leave it there.

So I took it home.

I dried its feathers as gently as I could, kept it warm, and made sure it was safe through the night. By morning, it already looked different. It had eaten, its feathers had puffed back up, and the fear in its eyes had started to fade.

When it was finally ready, I opened my hands.

It hesitated for a second, then flew back into the sky like the storm had never happened.

Yesterday, the rain gave me a moment of happiness.

And somehow, it also gave a little bird a place to stay.

For one night, it had a safe place to rest.

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I never expected that the happiest part of the night would be becoming someone's safe place.🤍

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I don't think people understand what overthinking really feels like.

It isn't just thinking too much.

It's living every moment twice,

once in reality,

and then a hundred more times inside your own head.

A simple conversation follows me home.

A pause becomes a question.

A different tone becomes a warning.

A delayed reply becomes a story I've already finished writing before the truth even arrives.

People tell me,

"You're reading too much into it."

Maybe I am.

But they don't hear how loud my thoughts become when the room goes quiet.

Sometimes I wonder if I talk too much.

If I ask for too much.

If I care too deeply.

Then, the next day, I become silent.

Not because I've suddenly found peace,

but because I'm afraid

that every word I say

is one more reason

for someone to leave.

The strange thing is,

silence doesn't make my mind any quieter.

It only gives my thoughts

more room to echo.

I replay old conversations

like unfinished songs.

I rewrite moments

that can never be rewritten.

I search for mistakes

no one else remembers making.

It's exhausting.

Not because life is always hard,

but because my mind

refuses to leave things

the way they happened.

People think I need advice.

I don't.

Most of the time,

I already know

what they're going to tell me.

"Stop worrying."

"Don't think so much."

"Everything will be okay."

Maybe they're right.

But knowing something

and believing it

are two different battles.

I don't need someone

to solve me.

I just wish someone

would sit with me

without rushing me

towards an answer.

Some thoughts don't need fixing.

They just need

a little room to breathe.

And maybe that's what I've been searching for all along

not certainty,

not perfect peace,

just a place

where I don't have to apologize

for the way my mind loves,

remembers,

questions,

and feels.

So if you ever find me quiet,

don't assume I've stopped thinking.

I'm probably still collecting every word,

every glance,

every silence,

trying to understand

what it all meant.

Maybe tomorrow

I'll tell myself

I was overreacting.

Maybe tomorrow

I'll convince myself

none of it mattered.

But tonight,

my mind is still wandering,

looking for answers

to questions

that probably never needed asking.

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thanks for reading this. if silence has ever felt louder than words to you, you'll get it.

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Life has a strange way

of teaching the heart humility.

The things I held closest

were often the first to slip away.

I built dreams carefully,

thinking love would protect them from time.

But time has its own quiet wisdom.

“Fitrat-e-insaan se waqif hai Rab,

Isiliye sabko sab nahi milta!”

But these words are not easy to understand.

They sound simple, yet they carry

the weight of many silent truths.

Only time, loss, and patience

slowly reveal their meaning.

I begged for a door to open

and it stayed shut.

I begged for someone to stay

and they left anyway.

I begged for the dream to hold

and watched it slip through my hands

like sand that was never mine to keep.

And I called it unfair.

I called it cruel.

I sat in the wreckage

and asked why, why, why.

I asked why, in the moment of losing.

I didn't get an answer in the moment of losing.

The answer came later,

quiet and uninvited,

long after I'd stopped asking.

Until one day, far from the wreckage,

I turned around and saw it clearly,

the door that stayed shut

was guarding me from a storm,

the one who left

was sparing me from a smaller life,

the dream that slipped away

was making room for one

that wouldn't have broken me.

And I realized, slowly, painfully, gently,

life was teaching me all along.

Not punishing.

Not withholding out of malice.

Just knowing me

better than I knew myself.

And when the answer came,

it didn't undo the ache.

It just sat beside it,

softly,

like something finally making peace

with something it couldn't change.

That is the strange mercy of it all,

not that the pain disappears,

but that one day I stopped needing

it to mean something else.

I let it mean exactly what it was.

And somehow, that was enough.

~ the wandering mind.

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hope this one stayed with you. thanks for being here, for this one especially.

if a line resonated, feel free to drop it in the comments. i'd love to know.

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The sunset waves goodbye,

Like the day is tired too,

Like it knows the weight I carried,

And the things I never said to you.

The sunset waves goodbye,

As the moon takes my hand,

Quietly walking beside me,

Like someone who understands.

And somewhere in the dark,

Where my hidden feelings lie,

The night gently reminds me,

It’s okay not to be fine.

~the wandering mind.

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hope this one found you the way it found me. if you liked it, share it, subscribe, and let me know what you felt ….. means a lot.

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