Gaiz, if I really think about it, I cried so many times from last month to this one that the days kind of blur together. Like, did it happen on a Monday? Or was it already Thursday? Quiet cries, sudden cries, the kind that come out of nowhere and leave you staring at the ceiling afterward, wondering what just happened.
I promised myself I wouldn’t say it again. The words that taste so wrong on my tongue—but sometimes they slip anyway. I thought love would fix it. I thought having someone gentle, someone steady, someone I adore so deeply would finally quiet that part of me. And yet, here I am, loving someone wonderful and still feeling this strange urge to pull back, to sabotage, to brace myself for a goodbye that hasn’t even happened.
Why does fear get louder when happiness finally shows up?
Does love raises the stakes? That when something matters this much, your heart suddenly remembers every loss it’s ever survived...? But part of me that learned to endure pain thinks it’s safer to ruin things early than to be surprised by grief later. If I’m not wishing myself gone, then am I just overwhelmed by how much I want to stay?
It’s confusing, holding joy and dread in the same hands. Wanting a future while quietly rehearsing how to survive if it falls apart. Feeling deeply grateful and inexplicably afraid in the same breath.
Why does safety feel scary sometimes? Why does comfort make me flinch? If I finally have somewhere to rest, why does my body still brace like it’s about to fall? I keep asking these questions like a kid who missed a lesson everyone else understood. I don’t know where the answers are. I don’t even know if there are answers. I just know the questions keep coming, especially at night, especially when everything else goes quiet.
Why is it like this?












