#fictionalperk

[fictionalperk]

Too Many "Almost" With Too Many People.

It starts before it even starts. People naming the end before anything begins. A connection forms, and within days or weeks, the disclaimers arrive; “This won’t last.” “Different goals.” “Different timelines.” “Just a phase.”

No lies. No delusions. Everything on the table from day one. And still, the talking continues. Messages pile up. Days blend into nights on calls. Routines forms; not because there’s commitment, but because it’s easy. Easy to share space when both sides understand there’s an exit door open the entire time. There’s no conflict. Just caution. No heartbreak, just well-managed expectations. This isn’t detachment; this is pre-detachment. A built-in expiration date stamped on nearly every human connection.

Somewhere along the way, emotional awareness turned into emotional restraint. Not out of cruelty, just habit. Every soft feeling gets filtered through logic. Every bond stays half-formed. Close, but not entangled. Intimate, but never vulnerable enough to fall.

Romance exists. So does care. But belief? Belief in something lasting, has taken a hit. Better to be “realistic” than “naive.” Better to enjoy something temporarily than risk reaching for something that might dissolve.

So, it repeats. The “almost”. The “whateverships”. The “we talk all the time but we’re not really anything.” Connections that mean something, just not enough to fight for. Not enough to change course.

Familiar patterns now. The beginning always feels fresh. Sharp, clear attention. Subtle fascination. But underneath that, a quiet understanding: this will likely end. That thought stays in the background, unspoken but present, shaping every interaction.

It’s not coldness. It’s conditioning.

In a culture where everything shifts fast, the jobs, cities, identities, priorities, it actually makes sense. Permanence feels unrealistic. So, people build moments instead of futures. Safe, temporary places to feel seen, until it’s time to move on.

And there’s no villain in this. Just design. A system that rewards detachment. A lifestyle that trains the mind to keep expectations low. A generation that learned not to hope too loudly.

The result? A long list of people who once meant something. Not enough to stay. Just enough to remember.

Too many almost. Not enough real.

[fictionalperk]

and

why does

this fragile little world with you,

feels warmer than any life

i try to imagine without you?

[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.