Love Was Written

Mara, I was going to stay home tonight. I had it all planned out.. me, my couch, my blanket, that show I've been rewatching for the fourth time because I can't seem to commit to anything new. And then you texted "come out?". And my first instinct was no. No because I'd have to put on real pants. No because people are exhausting. No because I'm safer inside my little bubble where nothing unpredictable happens. But then I thought of you waiting for me somewhere, checking the door every time it opened. And suddenly the bubble didn't feel like safety. It felt like missing something. You make me want to try. And I don't mean in the cliche "you make me a better person" way.. I mean actually try. To show up. To be present. To say yes to things I'd usually find excuses to avoid. I'm not built for "yes." I'm built for rescheduling, for "maybe next week," for staying home because the idea of doing something is heavier th...

Lena, I thought leaving you would be a clean break. But it's not. It's more like tearing a page out of a notebook.. the paper never comes out perfectly straight, there are always bits left stuck in the binding. And I think I'm the bits left behind. People keep asking me if it was a "hard decision." As if there was a moment when I just sat there with a scale, weighing the pros and cons, and then chose the lighter side. It didn't work like that. It was slow. So slow I didn't even realize it was happening. Sometimes, love looks like staying. The movies only show that part.. the big speeches, the running after each other in the rain, the I'll fight for us. But sometimes, love looks like folding your clothes into a bag while the sun is till out, checking the fridge for things you bought together and deciding which ones to take, and leaving your copy of the key on the counter without a note because a note would make it worse. I didn't leave because I did...

You, We didn't even speak. You were standing in line for coffee, green coat buttoned up wrong, hair still wet from the rain. I don't know why my chest tightened like that. You just.. existed. And somehow that felt like enough to rearrange me. I keep thinking about how your hands wrapped around the paper cup, how you looked down when you smiled at the barista, how your shoelace was untied but you didn't notice. These are not important things. And yet they feel like everything. How am I supposed to look away now that I've seen you? Not just your face, but the small things that make you you. The details that feel stolen. I don't know you. I don't know your name or what you were drinking. But in the seconds before you left, you glanced my way, and it felt like the whole city went quiet. Maybe you forgot me before you reached the next block. But I'm still here, writing this on a moving bus like some cliche, trying to capture something I was never supposed to keep...

Ash, You're asleep right now. Well.. maybe. Your breathing is slower but sometimes you fake it to mess with me. It's 12:38am and I should be sleeping too but I'm just.. looking at you. The little crease between your eyebrows is still there. You get it when you're dreaming about something intense. I wanna smooth it out but I also don't wanna wake you up. I was just thinking.. this is it. This is the place. Not the apartment, not the bed, not the way the window's cracked open a little too far so the air's cold on my arm. I mean here. With you. Where we are is where I always want to be. And that's not something I've been able to say about anyone before. Usually I'm thinking about the next thing, the exit, the escape plan. But with you, I forget to look for the door. Earlier tonight you made me tea without asking. You didn't even say anything about it. Just set it down next to me while I was scrolling on my phone. It was the exact way I like it. ...

Brett, I was going to start this softer. I really was. But it's late and I've been thinking too much. And my hands don't want to write anything pretty for you anymore. You picked me apart like a hobby. Too loud when I was excited. Too quiet when I was hurt. You said I laughed at the wrong moments. That I was "too sensitive," like it was a flaw you could sand down if you kept at it long enough. You hated that I needed reassurance. You hated that I didn't know when to shut up about things that mattered to me. You made it sound like love was a checklist, and I was always two boxes short. And the worst part? I believed you. I thought, maybe I really am too much.   Maybe I really am broken in ways that make me hard to keep.  So I tried to shrink. To fit. To become the version of me you could love without sighing. But here's the thing.. I've started meeting people who smile at the exact same parts of me you rolled your eyes at. People who don't just tole...

Moss, You're still here, but my brain is already preparing for the part where you're not. I hate that about me. I hate that every time something feels good, I start looking for the exit sign. It's not that I don't trust you. It's just that I've watched too many people fade in slow motion. First they answer slower. Then they cancel more often. Then they stop sharing the little things.. like what they had for breakfast or that dumb meme they laughed at, or how their boss mispronounced "cinnamon." And before I even realize it, they've disappeared. Like they were never really mine to begin with. I keep trying to tell myself you're different. You feel  different. But you also feel fragile. Like I have to hold you in both hands and breathe carefully so you won't slip. You once said, "I'm not going anywhere." And I nodded. But I didn't believe you. Not because you're a liar. But because I've learned that "not going a...

Nico, I've rewritten this a thousand times and it still doesn't sound right. Maybe because nothing I say will make up for what I didn't say when I had the chance. But here goes nothing. Or maybe here goes everything. I miss you. There. That's the part I always want to skip, like it isn't still sitting in the room with me, breathing heavier than I do. You were so patient with me. You waited while I figured myself out. You stayed through the messes I pretended weren't mine. You showed up, again and again, even when I didn't even know how to ask. You once brought me a coffee with a sticky note that said, "I know you won't say it, but I can tell today is a heavy day. Let me carry part of it." I think about that a lot. Not just the note. But the way you knew. You always knew. And I never said thank you the way I should've. I thought I had time. Time to get better. Time to become the version of me who could love you without fear, without walls, ...

  Tala, I don't know if you still let people call you that. Maybe it's just "T" now. Or something cooler, cleaner, more you-but-not-me. But you'll always be Tala to me. Star, light, orbit, everything I couldn't reach but tried anyway. I keep wondering.. how much of you is still the you I knew? Like, do you still hate soggy fries but eat them anyway because you don't like wasting food? Do you still do that little twitch with your left eyebrow when you're pretending you're okay but you're really not? Do you still fall asleep to sad songs on purpose? I don't mean to sound creepy. God. This is coming out wrong. What I mean is.. I'm scared that the version of you I love is already fading. Like a photo left out in the sun too long. I saw a picture of you. Just one someone else posted. You looked.. older, maybe. Different. Happier? I didn't know how to feel. Part of me wanted to print it and tape it to my wall. Part of me wanted to cry. Mo...

hi. i’m not sure how to begin, so maybe i’ll start with this: i think i love like someone who’s always been told they’re too much. so i give people little pieces of myself, quietly, slowly. like i’m afraid they’ll flinch. i overthink texts. i say “sorry” even when i’m not wrong. i remember the smallest things, like the way people take their coffee or what song they skip halfway through. i fall for the details. and that’s probably why i noticed you in the first place. i don’t know you, not really. but the idea of you lives in my head like a song i haven’t heard all the way through. just a few notes, looping. and i want to know more. not just your favorite color, but the way you say it. not just your birthday, but how you feel about getting older. this is me introducing myself without saying my name. because maybe this isn’t about names. maybe it’s about the timing of two people wondering if the other is out there wondering too. so, hi. again. i’m your almost. your maybe. your stranger w...