Elira Noor

My kinda therapy

[wordsbyelira]

Elira Noor | Substack

I write what lingers after everything ends.

Hello my friends,

Many of you have been with me since the very beginning of my writing journey, and I carry that with so much gratitude.

Lately, I’ve been exploring a new space—Substack. A quiet little corner where my words are learning to breathe differently.

If you’ve ever found something in my writing that spoke to you, I’d truly love for you to join me there as well. Your support has always meant more than I can put into words.

Here’s to growing, together there too…just on a new page.

[wordsbyelira]

The Nature Of Thorns

Standing at a crossroads, I finally decided to let go of the one comfort I had selfishly tried to keep.

Even now, I cannot decide which question troubles me more: why I held onto it for so long, or why I chose to leave.

It was a garden full of roses.

A place that welcomed me in my armor, let me collapse among its flowers, and offered shelter from the chaos that echoed endlessly inside my head.

I grew comfortable there.

The sunlight was warm. The roses bloomed in colors so vibrant they seemed untouched by sorrow. The endless green softened even the sharpest edges of a battle-worn heart.

And there, beneath it all, were thorns.

I noticed them from the beginning.

They scraped against my armor whenever I settled in too deeply. They caught on me whenever I tried to rest. Yet the garden was so beautiful, so comforting, that I convinced myself the scratches did not matter.

So I stayed.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. My armor grew thinner, though I pretended not to notice.

Then one day, a thorn pierced my finger.

I watched a drop of blood gather at the tip, small and crimson against the petals.

The pain was not unbearable.

It was simply impossible to ignore.

For the first time, I truly looked at the garden.

Not at the sunlight.

Not at the roses.

Not at the comfort it offered.

I looked at the thorns.

They were everywhere.

Woven through every stem, hidden beneath every bloom, guarding every corner I had once considered safe.

At first, I searched for an answer.

Did the garden not want me?

Had I mistaken hospitality for invitation?

Had I stayed beyond the point I was meant to?

The garden remained silent.

The roses continued to bloom.

The sunlight continued to fall.

Nothing changed.

And yet everything had.

For a while, I remained where I was, returning to the same patch of flowers, hoping I had misunderstood what I had seen.

But eventually, a quieter truth found me.

The thorns were never there because of me.

They were there because they belonged to the garden.

They were not a punishment.

They were not a warning.

They were simply part of its nature.

And perhaps they always would be.

So I stood.

I gathered what remained of my armor, picked up my sword, and looked at the place that had sheltered me for so long.

Then I smiled.

Not because leaving was easy.

Not because I no longer loved the garden.

But because some places can be beautiful and still not be where you are meant to stay.

And with gratitude for the warmth it once gave me, I walked away, carrying a quiet hope that somewhere beyond the horizon there is another garden waiting – not one without thorns, but one where I do not have to bleed simply to belong.

[wordsbyelira]

The Shape Of Their Absence

Like a mountain peak catching the first light of morning, I stand high, smiling as I feel the warmth on my face after reaching a milestone I once thought distant.

After years of quiet endurance, I find myself at the door, ready to step into something new.

Yet I hesitate.

My feet remain still, as if they no longer trust what lies ahead. A familiar ache settles into my chest, uninvited but known.

I keep my eyes on the door, thinking of everything I once imagined would be waiting for me on the other side.

And among all the things I learned to live without, there is a silence I never made peace with.

I do not turn back.

Because I already know what waits behind me, or rather, who does not.

There were faces meant to witness this moment. One I was supposed to look at and find pride reflected back at me. One who was meant to steady me as I stepped into the unknown. Others who were simply meant to be there, present, smiling, sharing the weight of this arrival.

One of them is now beyond anyone’s reach. I tell myself he is watching, that he sees me standing at this door, and that no one could be prouder.

The others are still in this world, breathing, laughing, living, just not here. Not with me.

And perhaps that is the cruelest thing.

How many deaths can one suffer?

Because grief does not separate itself neatly. It does not arrive in order, or allow itself to be understood one piece at a time. It gathers, overlaps, and becomes heavier than the sum of its parts.

So I weep, not only for the one who is gone, but for the ones who remain and still feel just as distant.

And here I am.

Standing at the door, looking down at my unmoving feet, afraid that if I dare to look back, I will see the full shape of their absence.

All five of them.

Waiting where they were always meant to stand beside me.

[wordsbyelira]

Between you and me

Between you and me,

this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Between you and me,

I was supposed to talk to you

without rehearsing, without hesitation.

Between you and me,

you were supposed to understand me

without needing translation.

Between you and me,

I was meant to stand beside you

as you reached your milestones,

not sit behind a screen,

wondering if I still have the right

to speak.

Between you and me,

we were supposed to witness each other’s lives,

your marriage,

my unraveling,

your children growing,

my writing turning into a book.

Between you and me,

we were supposed to grow old,

and I was supposed to pray

that I leave before you.

But none of that will happen.

So here I am,

grieving someone still alive,

just no longer within reach.

I thought you were my moon.

I just didn’t realize

you were already moving away.

[wordsbyelira]

Hello Elira, I got inspired with your writing skills, I wonder how did you came across this and how long have you been writing?

I’m really glad you liked my writing, it means a lot. I’ve been sharing longer pieces as posts for the past two years, but I’ve actually been writing since I was quite young. As for inspiration, I wouldn’t say it comes from anything big or extraordinary. Life has just humbled me enough to notice the small things more carefully.

[wordsbyelira]

Embarrassment

Human emotions are messy, not in their existence, but in their persistence.

One feeling does not leave; it reshapes, reintroduces itself in unfamiliar forms.

I have known hurt, the kind that makes you question your own weight in someone else’s world.

I have carried anger, and the quiet humiliation of caring more than I should have.

It is softer now.

The air does not press against my ribs the same way.

My body no longer reacts as if love were a threat.

But healing is not clean.

It does not erase, it repackages.

And sometimes, what returns is not pain.

It is embarrassment.

A slow, burning awareness of how openly I once stood.

I am embarrassed that I mistook consistency in words for truth.

That I let people walk through me as if my heart were something steady enough to withstand their carelessness.

I am embarrassed that I held gently what did not hesitate to bruise me.

That they occupied more space in me than I ever did in them.

But what unsettles me most is not that I loved them.

It is that I now hesitate when I recognize that version of myself.

The one who loved without calculation.

Without restraint.

Without asking to be met halfway.

And I wonder, not whether they deserved it,

but whether I am becoming someone who will no longer allow it. 

[wordsbyelira]

Redundancy

The contemplation between what ifs and what should haves pulled my mind back into wandering.

And, like it always does, it stopped at a place I never intend to revisit.

An old habit. An old bus stand.

I lingered there, swinging my legs, tracing the edges, wandering through it with a strange, quiet joy. Every color, every turn, every pattern felt familiar enough to pass as home. Maybe, just maybe, it was home.

Until I stood in front of the bus that had once run me over.

And watched it do it again.

And again.

I smiled at myself, half amused, half aware, then sighed without meaning to.

There was so much there.

So much history.

So much love.

So much of everything.

No one tells you how companionship can shape or shatter your sanity until you are the one left picking it up off the ground.

It is different from heartbreak. Not greater, not lesser, just different. The line between them is thin, but the distance feels infinite.

I have known both.

And, if I am being honest, I played the fool in each.

Both slammed me from the sky to the ground, dust filling my lungs, my vision blurring on impact.

But this was different.

This did not just smash me to the ground.

It broke my wings.

Not a clean clip, either.

It held them by the root

and plucked them.

Left me grounded in a way that made the sky feel like a memory I had imagined.

Still, I crawled. Then I stood. Then, somehow, I flew again, brushing against the blue with a quiet, stubborn smile.

But the body remembers what the mind tries to outgrow.

Every now and then, I feel it again, the phantom ache of wings once torn away.

And when it does, I find myself back at that same bus stand,

reliving

that one bus running over me,

again

and again.

[wordsbyelira]

Before Opening The Box

One night, I woke with an unfamiliar unease pressing against my chest and a quiet nausea turning in my stomach.

It felt like drowning.

The room was still, but inside me something had already begun to sink.

I needed someone.

Not to rescue me.

Just to hold me steady long enough for my heart to believe it was safe.

Experience has taught me this much.

I do not float well in uncertainty.

I start mourning the collapse of ground that is still perfectly intact.

I rehearse disasters before they have the courtesy to exist.

So I sink into black water, reaching out for hands that may or may not reach back.

Sometimes I think even the mere presence of someone beside me could look like a shore in the distance.

But straws are not always available on demand.

At first I fight.

I thrash in thoughts.

I gulp at imagined shortages of air.

I panic at depths I have not even measured.

Then exhaustion arrives.

And as I descend, slowly, inch by inch, something strange happens.

The water is not black.

My mind is.

Nothing has collapsed.

No catastrophe has unfolded.

No loss has been confirmed.

Yet I had already chosen the worst ending from a future still sealed shut.

Somewhere, I imagine Schrödinger sighing at me.

The box is closed, the outcome undecided, and here I am organizing the funeral for a cat I have not even met.

Uncertainty does not demand tragedy.

It merely refuses to clarify itself before its time.

Why do I insist on declaring death before the lid is lifted

Why must I experience a thousand endings before one has even knocked

I laugh then.

Not out of cruelty toward myself, but at the absurd precision with which my mind manufactures doom.

My shoulders are still stiff.

My heart still beats a little faster than I prefer.

But I am breathing.

Even here.

Even under water that turns out to be nothing more than shadow.

Whether I float or sink will not be decided by fear.

It will be decided by time, which seems far less dramatic than I am.

And until the box opens, perhaps I can allow the cat — and myself — to simply exist.

[wordsbyelira]

A house that knows my name

Do you know what it means for a woman to own a house of her own?

To many, it is only walls and windows. A transaction. A signature pressed onto paper. But to some women, it is a quiet revolution. Not simply freedom, but belonging.

Until she owns a place that answers to her name, she is often a guest everywhere. In the house she was born into, she is raised with love, yet always as someone who will leave. In the house she enters after marriage, she is welcomed, yet subtly reminded she arrived.

She is always in transit. Never entirely rooted.

She grows up folding parts of herself carefully so she may fit into rooms that were not built with her in mind. She lowers her laughter. She measures her footsteps. She learns the art of existing without disturbing the furniture.

Some will say this is exaggeration. Some will say they never felt displaced. And perhaps they are fortunate.

But what of the others, the ones who moved from one doorway to another carrying the same quiet ache in their chest? The ones who learned early that “home” was a temporary word?

The number is not as small as it sounds.

A woman dreams of a house that belongs only to her. Only hers. No one else’s.

A house where no one reminds her that it is not truly hers. Where no one stands in the air like an unspoken authority. Where the walls do not watch her with expectation.

A place where she can dance in the middle of the room, barefoot and unafraid. Where her laughter can rise to the ceiling without being hushed. Where silence, if it comes, is chosen and not imposed.

It is strange how such a modest dream, a roof, a key, a name on a deed, can feel as vast as the sky.

And how something so small can be so difficult to claim.

[wordsbyelira]

Unclaimed Hours

In the middle of the night,

my eyes stayed fixed on the clock.

I watched its numbers change,

one after another,

like hands slipping from my grasp.

Still, I lay there…

diving headfirst into the abyss,

though it no longer called me by name.

I had waged war against myself,

stood against the people I used to be,

fought toward a future I meant to mend.

I dismantled everything that once pulled me toward the void,

starved that hunger,

chose light;

consciously.

Yet I kept my hands to myself,

watching a hollow

that no longer had the strength to take me,

instead of using those same hands

to build the future I fought for.

In what hope,

or what quiet despair,

do I allow an ache to return;

one that exists

only when I invite it?

The clock kept changing its face.

I did not.

The guest I once drove away,

breaking every rule of hospitality to make it leave,

has finally gathered its things

and stepped toward the door.

But it seems

I am the one lingering;

hesitant,

unready

to let it go.

[wordsbyelira]

The Words

And suddenly, the words betrayed me..

slipping past my lips before I could shackle their freedom.

Words that curse every creature foolish enough to believe in happiness,

offering the illusion of sanctuary while dragging them barefoot through fire.

They carry a hypnotic power…

the deeper the curse, the sweeter the trance;

the greater the pain, the wider the smile,

even as flesh peels away and bone learns what endurance means.

Those were the words.

The ones I swore..solemn, trembling that I would never give breath to again.

Fear gripped me so violently I scanned my empty room,

as if silence itself might testify against me.

I distrusted the walls, the scattered books,

even the darkness pooled in the corner..

terrified they would whisper my confession

and condemn me to yet another pilgrimage through suffering

for daring to summon those words.

And then the thought arrived, uninvited and merciless:

did I truly escape hell by burying their existence?

Or am I still there..

entombed in denial,

trying to starve a truth that was never meant to be tamed?

[wordsbyelira]

Rootless

Some days I swear I’m walking,

not on earth, but on the memory of it.

Like my feet touch the ground, but the ground doesn’t claim me back.

It doesn’t hold me the way I hold on to it

but it’s okay, right?

A grip from one side is enough… right?

It gives me an unnatural sense of freedom.

A superpower, though I still don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse.

The soil around me is so loose I can roam anywhere -

nothing holding me down, nothing waiting for me to return.

I keep moving - city to city, room to room, thought to thought ,

yet nothing ever feels like it wants to hold me for long.

So I hug everything like an old friend

and slip away with a smile

before I’m reminded I’ve overstayed my welcome.

Maybe that’s the thing about people like me.

We grow like wandering vines, clinging to moments instead of places.

We bloom where we’re needed, then drift somewhere else.

We pretend not to care when the world keeps shifting the soil beneath us,

when no place wants us to stick around longer than necessary.

And at some point, I made my peace ,

maybe with a hint of delusion -

that I can roam until a place finally holds me tight enough to be home.

Still, late at night, when everything gets too quiet,

I feel that small ache ,

the one that whispers I don’t belong anywhere.

That there’s nowhere that craves my presence

more than what I can give.

No place that lets me stay without shrinking, proving, earning.

So I remain in motion.

Rootless.

Carrying the ground I stand on with me,

because nothing else has ever asked me to stay.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most -

not the drifting,

not the leaving,

but the simple truth that no place has ever held me long enough

for me to call it home without hesitation.

So I keep moving, not out of freedom,

but out of necessity.

Because the moment I stop,

I’m reminded,

again and again,

that the world has never had any place for me.

And I don’t know if it ever will.

[wordsbyelira]

The Circle of Misery

I am stuck.

Stuck so hard that I feel buried alive in the open air.

As if Mother Earth is swallowing me whole while I can still feel the breeze on my skin, the rain falling on my face, the sun’s ray reminding me that I am alive.

I wonder if I am actually alive, or if this is only the moment flashing before one’s eyes at death.

The weight in my chest rises to my throat, and I no longer feel buried by the earth.

Instead, my ground disappears, and all at once I sink into an ocean no one has ever seen.

It gets harder to breathe. I keep sinking deeper.

I look up, and all I see is a clean blue blurring my vision.

The world feels empty—no one around, no noise, nothing.

I try to find peace in this nothingness, thinking maybe this is the end, and I don’t really mind sinking to the bottom this way—soothing, quiet, almost merciful.

But then my head begins to scream in agony.

The emptiness twists into something unbearable.

I cry out in pain, as if my very soul is on fire.

I open my eyes.

The ocean is gone. The earth is gone.

Now I sit beside raging lava, as furious as I am.

I scream as loud as the lava screams back at me.

The world is still empty—but in a world full of pain, does anyone notice anyone’s absence?

I do. My agony isn’t the lava. It’s the pain of knowing no one will save me from it.

Eventually the anger dies, because my reason refuses to let me burn pointlessly for long.

It freezes me instead, and the cold spreads until it consumes me.

When I open my eyes, I’m sitting in an ice castle I built for myself after hurting too long.

No grave to swallow me. No ocean to drown me. No lava to wound me.

Just silence—pure, clean silence.

Perhaps I would have felt at home here, if only it could give me the warmth I crave.

But the castle protects me from everything—even the warmth I seek.

I could just give up on the warmth I want and live this short life in peace.

Humankind has always been greedy for what it cannot have.

So I step out of my fortress in search of warmth,

and the circle of misery dances, delighted, at its chance to repeat itself.

[wordsbyelira]

I withered Beautifully By Easy Love

What do we really mean by easy to love?

Isn’t it just another name for someone who demands so little—

someone who feels so unworthy

that anything they do seems whimsical?

Not because of who they are,

but because they don’t expect.

They can’t.

How can winter dare to dream of the sun

shining its happiest light?

The absence of expectations makes a person seem beautiful,

appealing, effortless to be around.

But this isn’t human behavior at all.

How can a human live without expectations

when they were created with one to begin with?

Easy love fades—

like fog vanishing the moment the sun touches it.

So should anyone really wish to be easy to love?

Or simply…

to be loved,

regardless of how difficult that may be?

[wordsbyelira]

The Earth Is Empty

I thrive in the rush—

jumping from one task to another like a person possessed.

It never bothers me, being swamped.

In fact, life feels like a hard lump in my throat

when it slows down,

when everything becomes steady

and I’m given time to breathe.

That’s when the earth feels smaller.

So small

that even the question—whether it’s round or flat—feels ridiculous.

Because in those moments,

the earth feels deserted.

Empty.

Leaving me as its sole survivor.

Nowhere to run.

No one to turn to.

Just me,

staring at a world

that isn’t empty by numbers—

but by hearts.

I pride myself on surviving alone,

doing everything as if it never leaves scars.

In the rush,

I don’t even notice the pain—

who has time for that, right?

But when life slows down,

when it finally gives me a breather,

the ache catches up.

The ache of everything that’s ever hurt me.

Everything that ever made me want to run

from every fight I swore I thrived in.

The pain becomes unbearable—

so heavy it makes me want to crawl inside something,

someone,

anywhere that can make it easier to keep breathing.

But run to whom?

Run to what?

The earth is empty, after all.

[wordsbyelira]

I see You but I don’t Look

Time cuts its chunks, bit by bit.

Either by covering the wound—

or leaving a scar,

a reminder of what’s been lost.

What I lost didn’t just leave a scar.

It chipped away a part of me

that I doubt will ever fill back up.

I try to contain it,

covering the hollow carved inside me.

But here and now—

it slips.

It slips,

and I feel that gut-wrenching ache

all over again.

You.

It may not matter to you,

but I really had to learn how to live without you.

How to not love you.

How to not tell you every little thing

that comes into my head.

It still leaves me aching.

Still, the hollow burns—

like a heated knife pressed to my heart.

How much hurt does it take

to paralyze a person?

How much pain does it take

to avoid looking at someone’s face?

You went from my favorite view

to the thing I can’t look at anymore.

We still talk.

We still laugh.

We still plan things that will never happen.

What punishment did I choose

after you ripped my heart apart?

I stopped looking at you.

I see you—

but I don’t look.

Looking at you feels like the wound tearing open again.

Tell me—

is this your punishment,

or mine?

[wordsbyelira]

A Little bit More

I stared at the wall,

as if projecting my thoughts onto it—

as if silence could answer back.

I watched my life slipping,

like sand pouring through the cracks of my fist—

steady, inevitable, grain by grain.

Everything moves so fast.

Faster than we realize.

Faster than we can even begin to understand

how each tiny moment bends us,

shapes us,

breaks us.

How the breeze feels different

when life quietly changes its shape.

How even flowers seem to lose their color

when the sun forgets to rise

on the horizon of our hearts.

And still—

the flowers bloom.

The breeze still finds our skin.

We learn to adapt.

But deep in my heart,

I always wonder…

Is life only about adapting?

Or was it meant to be

something

a little bit more?