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But what could the charm of your face ever offer me, when beneath it lives a mind that decays everything it touches?

I stayed where it hurt because leaving felt like admitting it was all for nothing—like every tear, every quiet compromise, every piece of myself I gave away had no meaning at all. So I stayed, convincing myself that pain was just another form of patience, that if I endured it long enough, it would finally turn into something worth keeping. But all I was really doing was turning my own wounds into a place I called home.

I love you, but I can't save you. You have forbidden me from looking at your wounds, and here I stand on the sidelines, watching helplessly as you destroy yourself, aching with the weight of a love that was never enough.

There is love, and there is the absence of it, there are people who grow up surrounded by it, and there are those who are left to snatch their share of it, there are people who never had to know what it feels like to lick it off a knife and flood their mouths with their own blood, and there are people who clench their fists at the very first sign of affection, there are people who take it for granted, and there are people who sympathetically pray for those who don’t have it, there are people who never had to be conditioned to earn it through achievements, and there are people who stand at the top with no one to clap for them, there are people who have a home to return to after failing, and there are people who couldn’t afford to fail because affection depended on grades, there are people who watch others and think how peaceful it might be to have no one breathing down their neck, and others who wonder how it would feel to have someone care about them, to know what goes on in their lives.

On a random day, the tears no longer come at the thought of them. Your chest doesn’t hurt, and you don’t feel like curling up in yourself. Their name sounds bittersweet rather than like a knife that dug deeper every time you remembered. Their memories don’t make you spiral into panic, you don’t flinch at the sound of their voice. And there is nothing more left to be grieved—only a certain emptiness that is neither good nor bad, the kind that makes you numb to the pain while still keeping you intact. You no longer feel bothered by their absence, which is only present like a ghost if you pay attention to it. And gradually, even that ghost leaves, and you once again, after losing half of yourself, get over something you thought you never would.

And I wanted to yell at you, to break things and scream about how hard you made it seem for someone to love me, how you made it feel so easy to replace me, as if I hadn’t been everything you ever wanted. I wanted you to hear the anger in my voice, to finally understand the weight of everything I had been holding in, but I didn’t. I stood there quietly, biting back my tears, the anger sitting heavy in my throat, and I swallowed it all—every word, every question, every hurt because I am tired of explaining myself and coming face to face with the same outcome, over and over again.

I write because I doubt anyone will ever understand me as much as I understand myself. Words become the only place where I don’t have to simplify, soften, or hide the parts of me that feel too much for the world. On paper, I can be honest without fearing I’ll be misunderstood or dismissed, and I can hold every contradiction that lives inside me without having to explain it away. Writing listens in a way people rarely do—it remembers, it stays, it lets me unravel at my own pace. And maybe, in the quiet act of putting myself into words, I become both the one who speaks and the one who finally understands.

Being replaced doesn’t shatter you all at once—it unravels you slowly, in the quiet moments where you realize they no longer reach for you the way they used to. It’s seeing someone else receive the warmth you once had to beg for, hearing your own memories echoed in places you no longer belong. You start questioning everything, if you were ever enough, or just convenient until something better came along, and the worst part is how easily they move on, while you’re still standing in the same place, holding onto a version of them that doesn’t exist anymore.

I still call it love sometimes, even when I remember how quickly your voice could change, how I learned to go quiet before you even looked at me. I held onto the gentle version of you like proof that things weren’t as bad as they felt, like maybe if I was good enough, soft enough, you would stay that way. But I was a child, and love shouldn’t have felt like something I had to earn from my own mother, it shouldn’t have made me afraid of being seen.

Don’t be so understanding that you begin to forget yourself just to be loved. Don’t lose your spark or dull your whimsy to fit into spaces that were never meant for you. Don’t abandon yourself by tolerating what crosses your boundaries—especially not from the people you love. Don’t accept love that arrives half-hearted, inconsistent, or unsure. And don’t settle for less when you know you give more than most ever will. Don’t silence your needs to keep the peace, and don’t shrink your voice to make others comfortable. Don’t confuse familiarity with safety, or intensity with sincerity. Don’t stay where you are only tolerated when you deserve to be deeply cherished. Don’t keep pouring into people who only ever come to you empty. And above all, don’t forget that the love you keep trying to earn is the very love you owe yourself first.

I don’t think I ever understood what “home” meant until I found pieces of it in you. It’s in the way you listen, like my words matter, in the way your presence quiets the chaos inside me without trying too hard. You don’t just make me happy, you make me feel seen, held, understood in ways I didn’t know I needed. If I could, I would memorize every little thing about you, the way your voice softens, the way your silence speaks, the way you exist so effortlessly in my world. Loving you doesn’t feel like something I chose, it feels like something my soul recognized before I ever did. And if there’s anything I’m certain of, it’s this—I would find you again, in every lifetime, in every version of this world.

[From “Letters I Would Never Send”]

I wake up next to you, and the world seems kinder. The gentleness with which you treat me is the ointment I had been searching for most of my life. You hug me a little closer, tighter, and instead of feeling repulsed, I let myself melt into the very arms that piece me back together with a care I had long forgotten. I close my eyes again and don’t find myself alone in a dark headspace where no light could penetrate. The war is over, and I can finally rest.

You don’t have unlimited tomorrows.It’s not dramatic—it’s just the truth. You are not immortal, you are made of dust, minerals, and water, held together by something as fragile as breath. You are not behind anyone, but you are not exempt from time either. So don’t take your limited “later” for granted. Tell your parents you love them. Tell your siblings you love them. Tell your friends you love them. Don’t withhold affection, appreciation, or gratitude from the people who make it easier for you to exist, to breathe, to be. Your heart feels this deeply for a reason, don’t let that tenderness go to waste.

Maturing is lingering in places that once made you feel loved. It is hugging your best friend a little tighter, a little longer, because now you meet only once in months. It is deliberately spending time with your family, because the gray hairs and soft wrinkles have started to whisper what time never says out loud—that life has always been fleeting. It is understanding why our parents stand at the door, talking for half an hour before saying goodbye. It is returning to the same place to eat with your friends after hours of debate, because somehow, that place has become a part of you. It is knowing, even as you live a moment, that you are going to miss it terribly someday. It is appreciating your cousins, sitting beside your grandparents, trying to etch the sound of their warm, careless laughter into the deepest corners of your memory. Maturing is realizing just how fragile, how temporary, and how achingly beautiful human life is.

Some mothers do not give birth to children, they deliver the ghosts they were never allowed to bury. Pain, sharpened and carried for years, slips into the cradle with them. Revenge, quiet and patient, hums beneath every lullaby, disguised as love but heavy with everything that was taken. And hope—God, hope—arrives bruised, barely breathing, placed into small, trembling hands as if this time, this life, might survive what they could not. Their bodies remember everything, the silences forced down their throats, the nights they learned to endure instead of live, the versions of themselves that never made it out and it all bleeds into what they create. A child becomes more than a child; they become a second chance, a burden, a fragile attempt to rewrite a story that has already carved itself too deep. And in the dark, when the world finally goes quiet, there is a kind of grief that does not let them rest the terror of passing on what they hate, the guilt of needing this child to heal something they did not break, the unbearable ache of loving someone with a desperation that feels like both salvation and ruin at once.

And if you can offer someone even the tiniest bit of hope, please don’t hesitate. You know how much even a small reassurance—a flicker of light in a vast, abyssal darkness—can mean. Kindness, however quiet or fleeting, carries more weight than we realize; it can steady a trembling heart, soften a lonely night, and give someone a reason to breathe a little easier. Sometimes people stand at the edge of giving up without anyone noticing, smiling on the outside while quietly falling apart within. In those moments, even the smallest gesture, a gentle word, a little patience, a simple reminder that they matter can become the reason they decide to try once more, to wake up tomorrow with the faint belief that life might still hold something good for them. You never truly know how close someone is to breaking, which is why kindness should never be withheld, sometimes that tiny flicker of hope becomes the fragile thread that keeps someone from letting go.

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