Anusilan

casual oversharing.

[fictionalperk]

and

why does

this fragile little world with you,

feels warmer than any life

i try to imagine without you?

[nomorechoirs]

“I have to tell you” by Dorothea Grossman

[fictionalperk]

<3

[fictionalperk]

Half lovers and whole heart.

I don’t like you because talking feels useless, you understand me too much already. I don’t like you because you never tell me my hair looks nice, or notice the way I paint my eyes just for you. I don’t like you because you never wake up before me unless you have some work. I don’t like you because you don’t like the morning sun like I do.

But you’re the wildest person I’ve ever known. So full of life and fire that nothing could hold you.

I don’t like you because I love you. And somedays feels like you don’t love me back.

But I cannot-not like you forever. I want to, but I can’t save you from your demons. And you can’t save me from myself. I’ll stay as long as I want. Then we’ll go separate ways. You’ll be pulled by your madness, and I’ll be tied to mine.

I think I love how you look when you walk down the street in your black outfit. It’s sad that I’ll remember your back and your voice more than your face. But in that moment when you gave me a smile, kissed me, and walked away; you gave me a home, a door, a lover, a love and longing, heavy, joyful longing.

Sometimes they tend to have half lovers. They wear half a ring and carry pieces of empty hearts. When you ask where their love is, they point to a distant place, a woman standing strong, holding a glowing heart in her hands.

She’s always there, never fading with time. You tell him what they told themselves when they cried on empty chests;“You can grow hearts.” So you kiss his chest, each kiss a heartbeat. That’s how you become the woman who gave her heart and didn’t take one back. The woman who walks around carrying half a ring on her finger.

We like to get drunk, you and I. because drunk is a place where lies feel real. Where the unacceptable feels okay. Where your first lover’s promises fall apart.

Was that his breath or mine? I don’t know. We drank the same liquor.

I slept next to him like a fresh drop of dew. I don’t remember how he touched me. I don’t care anymore. My body feels broken, and not caring is bad.

I need to love. Wanting to love is different from wanting to be loved.

I’m tired. And when I’m tired, I forget what I like. I don’t like it when people love me. I like loving others.

I could make loving my hobby. Write it down on my CV. I need to love. Not be loved.

[fictionalperk]

I haven’t been able to write lately because I don’t know how to sit with my feelings without wanting to disappear from them. Everything feels crooked. Reality feels louder than my chest can handle. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just know I’m tired of thinking in circles.

I keep wondering what times and circumstances do to people. What kind of void lives inside someone that makes them do the exact things they once promised they’d never do. Everyone is so desperate to fill whatever hollow thing lives inside them that they start calling anything love. Attention becomes connection. Lust becomes fate. Convenience becomes destiny. And I hate how convincing it all sounds when you’re lonely enough. People stay committed and still chase something else. They bleed someone dry emotionally and call it confusion. They take what they need and disappear the moment it stops feeding their void.

And I’m so fucking tired of pretending this is tragic and poetic. It’s not.

When people are involved, it’s never for the same reason. Never the same depth. Never the same honesty. One is in love. The other is just empty and bored and grabbing whatever feels warm.

Everyone wants to be understood. Everyone wants that click. That matching energy. I keep asking myself, what level do people go to fill their void?

Low. Lower than they ever admit.

They’ll lie. They’ll betray their values. They’ll hurt people they actually like. They’ll ruin stable things. Just to not feel hollow for five fucking minutes.

And the worst part? I see all of it. I hate all of it.

And somehow, it still feels too close to home.

I don’t even feel clean anymore. I don’t know when feelings turned me into someone I don’t fully recognize. I don’t know when I started romanticizing pain just to make sense of why I keep staying in situations that drain me.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

What the fuck is wrong with me for still hoping that someone will mean what they say?

[fictionalperk]

Addiction

They didn’t leave. They stayed;

like a slow burn under my skin,

poison and fire tangled tight.

I know the game.

The push and pull,

the half-truths dressed as touch,

the way he holds me like I’m fragile

but breaks me like I’m nothing.

I’m addicted;

to the way his arms forget to let go,

to the sharp taste of wanting something

I know will cut deep.

My mind screams distance,

but my body answers

before I can say no.

I want the chaos,

the hurt, the high;

because normal feels like a lie

and only his broken love

makes me feel alive.

I hate it. I crave it.

I’m tangled in the same thread

that’s slowly choking me.

This isn’t love.

It’s an addiction

I don’t want to quit.

[fictionalperk]

Just Enough Thrill to Remember I’m Alive

Today, I wasn’t running from myself. The air tasted like freedom, and your laughter almost made me believe in things again.

We spoke of pasts, of little people we used to be, and the pieces we still protect.

The road turned golden and for a moment, I forgot every rule I ever made for myself. The world was wide, and I felt small in the best way.

Then came the fall. My stomach turned, my knees met the ground, and I realized even beauty asks for blood sometimes. You held out your hand, but I needed my own. I always will.

You said sorry to God, I whispered thank you. We were never meant to cross lines; we were just meant to meet at the border and recognize the reflection because some people don’t come to stay or to ruin, they come to remind you that you’re still alive, still capable of feeling, still soft, even after the fire.

And maybe that’s what this was; not sin, but just a lesson in how fragile and how beautiful a single day can be just like our lives.

[fictionalperk]

maybe this is peace

lately, i’ve been feeling everything. all at once, all the time. like my body’s an open tab that won’t close. i feel joy like static, sadness like caffeine, love like background noise. but it never spills over. everything just hovers inside me; dense, quiet, waiting.

my emotions don’t scream anymore; they hum. i don’t know if that’s maturity or malfunction. my thoughts run past me like trains, fast and uninterested in stopping. i don’t chase them. i just watch. i let things pass ; orders, ideas, people. i’ve started spending my days like pocket change, like i can always earn more of them.

somewhere along the way, i started feeling like an adult ; not because i have my shit together, but because i’m constantly aware that i don’t. the child version of me, the one that used to turn everything into meaning, feels gone. and now there’s just this version; someone who still romanticizes sunsets but checks their phone between colors.

when i feel things now, it’s layered. i can love someone and still watch myself doing it from the outside, like a third person taking notes. i think i stopped confusing intensity for truth. maybe that’s what growing up is ; realizing not everything that burns is worth holding.

i meet people and feel their entire existence at once. the way they talk, the way they pause before they speak, the way they look at their hands when they lie. i always notice too much. i get attached to details more than to people. like, how someone tilts their head when they listen, or how their laugh hits the wall before it hits me. i hold onto that. not them.

i think i’ve loved people that weren’t mine to love, and been loved by people who didn’t know what to do with it. sometimes it feels like life’s a collection of half-finished conversations, like everyone leaves mid-sentence, and somehow that’s the point.

there’s this memory i can’t stop replaying; a door, a book, a kiss that felt like punctuation. that tiny pause in time before everything becomes memory. i think about it whenever i want to remind myself that I was there, that I did feel something once that made sense.

silence feels safer now. it’s not empty; it’s just uncluttered. i don’t need to fill every gap with meaning. i don’t even need to explain what’s missing. i’ve stopped reacting to people the way i used to, it’s not coldness, it’s conservation. i think i’ve learned that peace costs energy too.

my ego? paper-thin. dissolves the second someone holds me right. i still make plans to walk away and still stay longer than i should. i still overthink when someone says another person’s name twice. i still find poetry in mistakes. i still care, just… quietly.

when he talks about new places, new people, i listen and pretend i’m not measuring the space between us. and even then, i feel calm. maybe that’s love too; not ownership, not heartbreak, just quiet witnessing.

i’ve stopped labelling everything as sad. some things are just there. neutral, like the sound of a fridge at night.

and maybe that’s what peace really is; the soft exhaustion after years of wanting everything to mean something. maybe peace is learning to sit with what doesn’t resolve. maybe it’s this; feeling everything, saying nothing, and still choosing to stay.

i don’t know if this is numbness or healing or the weird middle ground that no one writes about. but i think this is the closest i’ve ever been to balance. the kind that doesn’t demand stillness, just awareness.

i think this is what it feels like when the storm doesn’t end, you just stop standing in the rain.

[fictionalperk]

The Weight of Overtime.

Work is a strange classroom. Every day, it gathers people of every age and background under one roof; some as helpers, some as loaders, some as officers, some as assistants. And when you really look around, you begin to notice that time, money, and food don’t hold the same meaning for everyone.

For the younger ones, money often slips through our fingers without thought. Three cups of coffee in a day, snacks we don’t finish, food we sometimes waste. The meal provided at work often lies untouched, while we go out searching for something “better.” To us, comfort feels like a right, not a privilege.

But then there are the loaders. Men who have already given decades of their strength, yet still bend their backs to lift what we sometimes avoid. They are happy when overtime comes, grateful for the chance to earn a little extra. To them, every hour of work isn’t just about time, it’s survival. They eat the simple food provided, share it among themselves, and never complain. Sometimes a single cup of tea is enough to keep them going.

And it makes me sad.

Sad that while we waste, they save.

Sad that while we treat money as air, they hold every rupee like it carries the weight of their family’s tomorrow.

Sad that the same overtime that feels like punishment to us, brings relief to them; not because they love the work, but because they cannot afford not to.

At work, the differences show themselves in silence. In the untouched plates, in the shared tea, in the tired yet unbroken strength of those who keep going.

And it reminds me of one truth: most of us don’t really know the value of things; not yet.

[fictionalperk]

A Mask we put on to Survive the Day.

Before the sun come in the sky, we put on our masks;

not to hide, but to get through.

We’re like players on the same stage,

saying our lines, not because we believe them,

but because the show must go on.

Friends? Maybe one or two in the crowd,

but most faces are just shadows passing by.

We laugh when coffee spills,

one of those small moments of realness in a sea of pretend.

Underneath, there’s a quiet game,

a race no one talks about; but everyone feels.

This place isn’t just work.

It’s a kind of family we didn’t choose,

where we spend more time than anywhere else.

We share stolen glances across counters,

nods that say more than words ever could.

We see each other in the tired eyes,

in the forced smiles,

in the silent battles fought every day.

Some days, the mask feels heavy,

like carrying a thousand tiny weights.

But still, we wear it;

because out here, that’s how we survive.

Behind the laughter and the routine,

there’s a whole world of stories;

of hopes held close, of struggles kept secret.

And when the day finally ends,

and the mask comes off,

we’re just people trying to hold it together;

waiting for tomorrow to do it all again.

[fictionalperk]

Tulasha.

It has been two days, but I still can't stop thinking about her. I’ve come across hundreds of people in my workplace. People in a rush, people in confusion, people smiling, panicking, asking, forgetting, waiting, worrying. My role is to be their calm, their clarity in chaos. But every now and then, someone walks into your life and leaves behind a feeling you can’t shake off. For me, that someone was a woman named Tulasha.

She called me from behind. I was standing near the counter when I heard a soft voice asking if there was anyone who could help with her luggage. I turned around to see a young woman, probably 23 or 24 years old, carrying a toddler in a front baby carrier. The little one looked around a year or two. She seemed exhausted but composed, clearly struggling to manage both the baby and her luggage. Without thinking, I called one of our brothers to assist her.

She thanked me gently and went on her way, but a few minutes later, she returned. There was an issue. She had accidentally packed her laptop into her checked-in luggage, and according to policy, breakables like electronics aren’t allowed there. She needed to move it into her hand carry. But with a baby constantly tugging and crying, it was nearly impossible to do it alone.

Then she asked me something that caught me off guard.

“Can you hold him for a while?”

And so, I did.

The baby wasn’t easy. He cried; loudly and squirmed in my arms. He was heavier than I expected, and my arms began to ache. But I walked around with him, gently bouncing and humming, trying anything to soothe him. After a little while, he calmed down. Just stopped and looked around. And in that moment of quiet, I felt something shift inside me.

Meanwhile, Tulasha was repacking her stuffs. She was young, yes, but carried a strength that felt far older. As we moved toward the insurance counter to process the baby’s travel insurance, I was still holding her child. She looked at me and smiled, handing me a small chocolate. “Thank you,” she said. To her, it meant something. That moment, her gratitude, it felt too tender, too sincere to brush off.

While she was taking out money from her purse, something caught my eye; not intentionally, but because her wrist moved into my line of sight. That’s when I saw it: cuts. Thin, fresh, and unmistakably self-inflicted.

I froze inside.

Here was this young woman, a mother, a traveler, a fighter; who was also carrying silent pain on her skin. The contrast between the soft way she handled her child and the rawness of those wounds hit me hard. And I couldn’t ask. I didn’t know how. It wasn’t my place, and yet it felt like my heart ached for her.

Once everything was sorted, I helped her carry her baby and hand carry to the departure bus area. She was sweating, a little breathless from the rush. As she turned to leave, she asked me, “What’s your name?”

I told her. And then asked hers.

"Tulasha," she replied.

She gave me a side hug. I hugged her back, and wished I could’ve held her longer. Not because she needed it, maybe, but because I did. That hug carried all the questions I couldn’t ask. All the things I wished I could tell her. That she was brave. That she mattered. That her scars didn’t define her, but her strength did.

And then, she was gone.

Tulasha gave me a chocolate. But she also gave me something more: a moment of real, raw humanity that I can't stop replaying in my mind.

I don’t know where she is now, or what battles she’s still fighting. But I hope, deeply; that she finds moments of light in her days. That she knows someone out there remembers her, not as a passenger, but as a person. A woman who carried not just a baby, but a mountain of invisible weight and still smiled.

I’ll never forget her.

And I hope, in some small way, she won’t forget me either.

[fictionalperk]

What if - for once, she was the poem and not the poet?

She’s always been the one who notices first. Who sees beauty in silence, who loves without being asked to.

She’s built homes in people, even when she knew she couldn’t stay. Written about hearts, that never thought to read hers.

It’s not sadness she carries; just a quiet question.

Can she, for once, be the one someone looks for in a crowd? The reason a song is played twice? The story someone can’t stop telling?

She doesn’t want to be the writer tonight. Not the hands reaching out. Not the one with open arms and tired eyes.

She wants to be the thought that stays. The one remembered. The one felt. The one who doesn't have to try so hard to be understood.

Let her be the wish, not the wisher. The light, not the hunger.

Let her be the moon; enough just as she is, the ache someone would never let go of.

[fictionalperk]

i found the password, but what i really found was her

i recovered an instagram account i opened in 2015. i had nothing, no email, no password, no backups. just a blank screen and a distant feeling that there was something waiting there.

instagram showed that my email started with A and ended with H. and somehow, instinctively, my first name and his name. in my email. and guess what the password was? his name again. i typed it, almost jokingly not expecting it to work. but it did. haha. when i finally got in, he wasn’t even there. not in the dms, not on the following list. he didn’t follow me, i didn’t follow him.

what i did find, though, was something i never expected to hit me this hard my girlfriends, our messy and dramatic life.

the late-night texts. the jokes that only made sense in our group chat. and then?  the blocks. so many blocks.

blocking someone wasn’t just a feature back then, it was a scream. a silent “i’m hurt and i don’t know how to say it out loud.” we blocked each other not to disappear, but to be noticed. and when the anger settled, we always came back. we always found our way to say, “i missed you.”

we used to tell each other how much it hurt. when we stopped talking. we admitted it, raw and direct. "i felt left out when you guys went without me" "i was hurt when you ignored me in school today" we were too honest sometimes, but at least we felt everything.

and isn’t it wild? i cared more about being validated by my friends than i ever did by boys, i just wanted them to think i was cool. pretty. worth holding onto. the kind of person you'd screenshot a memory of.

but now? we ghost people, we say “life got busy.” we forget to reply.

but i remember now. i remember all of it. and that has to count for something.

this is for the girls i laughed with, cried over, blocked, unblocked, and never stopped loving.

this is for the girl i was 10 years ago, boyyyy,.. she felt everything, and she was never as small as she thought.

— me, 2025 (ten years later, still remembering it all)

[fictionalperk]

Feelings Are Just Visitors.

finding something to hold on to. something that makes sense, even for a second. longing out loud about being young; drinks in hand, nostalgia sharp in the throat.

finding new problems to fix. even if they’re not ours. especially if they can break us. pain feels familiar.

holding on to people who left. versions of ourselves that don’t exist anymore. loves that faded. friends who still see through the layers.

feelings walk in, sit down. make noise, and leave. cause' feelings are just visitors.

we laugh like nothing changed. we drink like it means something. we hold that beer-bottle like it’s a lifeline. like we’re afraid to drop.

holding on to places that disappeared. to homes that can’t hold us, so we hold what’s left. memories, noise or whatever that still answers when we call.

they’re not here to stay. none of it is. they come, they stay, they leave.

cause' feelings are just visitors.

[fictionalperk]

In Between: Expectation Versus Reality

There are phases in life where nothing fits. Plans fall through. Timing slips. People drift. And you sit there, holding everything you tried to build, wondering if you were too hopeful? or just too early!

You watch things you cared about fall apart slowly; not with drama, but with distance. People you once felt bounded to seem further, even when they’re still in reach. It’s not that they did anything wrong. It’s not even jealousy. It’s the ache of presence fading of someone you once felt aligned with now sharing their light somewhere else. And you don’t want more than what exists. But still, something quietly stings when you feel like you’re being replaced, even in the smallest ways.

You carry guilt for feeling this way. For needing people, for caring deeply, for noticing the shift before anyone says a word. And there’s a weight in pretending it doesn’t bother you; in smiling when your heart feels loud and restless inside your chest. It’s hard to admit when you don’t feel chosen, even though no one promised they would.

Home isn’t helping either. The place you should feel safe in only makes you question yourself more. Everyone has opinions. Assumptions. Warnings. And part of you wonders if they’re right, not because you believe them, but because doubt has already made itself comfortable.

Still, deep down, you know this is just one of those chapters; the kind you read through slowly, waiting for the page to turn. You know this feeling won’t last. That clarity will come. That alignment will return. That this heaviness, however sharp, is temporary.

You’re not broken. You’re in between. And that, too, I hope is part of the story.

[fictionalperk]

I Just Want To Grow.

Everyone’s running with papers in hand, plans on their head, feet pointed somewhere.

Me? I just carry silence, and let the chaos in my head fill my dreams.

They ask for my vision now, What if I forgot what wanting things feels like?

I nod, smile, make it polite. But inside,

a small voice claws up my throat: “I just want to grow.”

I'm tired of rooms that doesn’t feel like home, walls that echo, but never answer. Of hearing my name, but feeling invisible. Of talking, and still feeling unheard.

I want hours that mean something. I want silence that feels safe.

Is that too much?

Don’t tell me to run. Don’t hand me a timeline. I just need a space, To fall apart, To bloom again.

[fictionalperk]

Life is a soup and I'm a chopstick.

Nothing in my life is going right. I hate people with their perfect little goals, acting like they have it all figured out. I hate them all. And I don’t even know where to put all this hate boiling inside me. Maybe it’ll fade when my period ends, but for now it’s fucking hell. Being a woman feels like a curse. Five days of pain and mood swings, and then the rest of the month just trying to clean up the mess from choices I made when I wasn’t even in control. It’s exhausting. It’s unfair. It fucking sucks. I’m done with Instagram. Done with the fake peace, the filters, the bullshit smiles. Done pretending I’m okay. And men? Fuck it. I’ll stay single forever. I wanted to be an independent woman. But you know what? Even that feels like a heavy burden now. I’m tired of holding everything together while falling apart inside.

Someone turned their quiet garden into a noisy school. And my best friend, the one person I want to talk to is here, but I can’t just drop every storm in his lap. He’s fighting his own battles, carrying his own weight.He does what he can, and for that, I am truly grateful. But God, sometimes I just want someone to say, “I’ve got you,” without me having to ask for it. And then came that damn rejection. Probably because the person judging me didn’t give a fuck. He just looked at me like I was a fraud, like I didn’t belong. Like I was already guilty. I’m so fucking angry. I hate that I let it break me like this. I hate that I feel like a loser because of one moment, one cold decision. Life’s a fucking soup, and I’m just a useless chopstick, slipping, struggling, not made for this mess.

[fictionalperk]

Before We Begin Again;

A person walks into your life quietly, at the wrong time, or maybe the most perfect one; and everything shifts, without making any noise. You find yourself sharing silences that feels full, laughter that feels healing, and moments that leave no trace except the feeling that they matter.

We didn’t come together for love in the traditional sense. We found each other to grow, to ground, to quietly heal in each other’s presence. Not as partners in romance, but as something steadier.

You show up; not with grand plans, but with presence. You listen to the things I don’t always know how to say out loud. You laugh at the chaos when I forget to take a breath. You tell me the truth when I need it, and hold space when I need silence.

You never try to fix me. You just stand beside me; and somehow, I start putting the pieces back together myself. We don’t talk about “forever,” but we talk about the future; projects, cities, dreams.

We make space in our stories for each other, not out of obligation, but because it feels right.

You’re healing me in ways you may never fully realize, just by being who you are. And you say I’m doing the same for you. Just two people learning to grow beside each other, through late-night conversations, shared silence, and mutual respect.

Maybe it’ll never make sense from the outside. But it makes sense here. So, this is not a love story. This is a companion-ship. A healing. A mirror. A moment of clarity in a chaotic world. Sometimes, we just need someone to stand beside us while we become ourselves.

And I’m grateful it’s you.

with love,