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She calls whenever she needs something from me. That’s the pattern. No message in between, no small talk, no casual “how have you been?” Just silence… until there’s a requirement. And every time her name flashes on my screen, a part of me still hopes this time it’s different. This time maybe she just wants to talk. This time maybe she remembered me, not the things I can solve. But the conversation always bends in the same direction. Slowly, gently, almost innocently… but unmistakably. It’s like I can predict the moment it’s coming — the slight pause, the shift in tone, and then the ask. And I don’t know what hurts more: the request itself, or the realisation that the call probably wouldn’t have happened without it. It leaves me wondering what exactly I am to her. Am I a person she thinks of, or a number she dials? Is she finding excuses to talk to me because she doesn’t know how to start a normal conversation… or am I fooling myself with that possibility? Sometimes I try to convince my...

The heart broke first. Not loudly, not in some dramatic movie-like way—just a quiet collapse that only the heart itself could feel. It had been carrying far too much for far too long: unspoken hopes, unanswered messages, the weight of memories it never asked for, and the constant ache of wanting something it could never name properly. One evening, when everything felt heavier than usual, the heart finally whispered, almost trembling,  “Can you please take control?”  It wasn’t asking for help—it was surrendering. And the brain, usually so confident, so structured, paused for the first time. “For how long?”  the brain asked, genuinely unsure. That question hung in the air like a truth neither of them wanted to touch. Because the heart didn’t know. It didn’t know how long it needed to rest. It didn’t know how long before it could trust again, hope again, or even beat normally without that familiar sting. It didn’t know when memories would stop hurting or when mornings would ...

There are days when I sit quietly, with no messages lighting up my screen, no sudden memories tugging at my chest, and I realise something that feels almost… wrong. I don’t really miss her. It sounds cold. Detached. Almost unfair to what we once were—or whatever it was that existed between us. We were never in a relationship. There was never a label to hold on to. No definition to wrap our feelings in. Just moments—raw, unpolished, strangely intimate moments that stitched themselves into my everyday life. And yet… I don’t really miss her. Months pass. Seasons change. New routines form like fresh layers of dust on old shelves. We don’t talk anymore—not out of anger or distance, but out of something quieter, softer… something that feels like acceptance. And still, if someone asks me whether I miss her, I pause. I try to look inside myself for a void, for a pinch of longing, for an ache that goodbyes usually leave behind. But the truth echoes, as unsettling as it is comforting: I don’t re...

I’ve often been told that boys and girls can be the best of friends. I’ve seen people proudly declare, “She’s my girl best friend” or “He’s my boy best friend,” as if that title in itself is a badge of purity, trust, and balance. But every time I come across these stories, something inside me resists believing it. It’s not that I’m cynical about relationships or friendships. It’s just that, from where I stand, the line between a friendship and something more always feels too thin, too fragile. At some point, one of them either feels more than the other, or the person who is truly in a relationship with one of them begins to feel uncomfortable with the closeness. And then? Something breaks. Sometimes the friendship, sometimes the love, sometimes both. I’ve seen it happen in different ways. A girl who swears by her “guy best friend” ends up choosing between her boyfriend and her best friend when things get serious. A boy who promises his girlfriend that his friendship with another girl i...

People say I always give her the benefit of doubt. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I do. But sometimes, when I sit with my thoughts, I wonder if it’s less about her and more about me. I don’t think she was ever really wrong. Maybe she was just being herself. Maybe she never meant half the things I thought she meant. Maybe I read too much into her words, her pauses, her silences. Maybe I picked up on signals that weren’t even there. It’s possible that I was just another person in her world. One of many. But in my head, I made it bigger. I gave it more weight. I assigned meaning where there was probably none. And then when people ask me why I don’t stop talking to her, why I don’t distance myself, I don’t know what to say. Because it’s not really about caring for her. It’s about me. That’s just who I am. I don’t like cutting people off. I don’t like holding grudges. I can’t bring myself to treat someone coldly, even when it feels easier to do so. It’s not because I’m clinging. It’s not be...

There comes a point in life where you stop hoping people will see your worth—and you start demanding it. I’ve reached that point. I’ve spent too many years being the one who stays. The one who understands without being understood. The one who listens even when no one asks how I’m doing. The one who forgives not once, not twice, but every time—because I believed in the good, even when it was buried under excuses and silence. But you know what that does to a person? It wears them down. It makes them question if love is supposed to feel like endurance. Like sacrifice. Like slowly fading away just to keep someone else lit. And I’m done with that version of love. I’m done being the sanctuary people run to when their world falls apart—only to leave me the moment they’re whole again. I’m not a pit stop for people in transition. I’m not here to teach you how to love so you can give it to someone else. I’ve earned my scars. I’ve cried alone in rooms full of people. I’ve smiled while breaking in...

They say you have to try. Try harder. Try everywhere. Search for her in clubs, cafés, apps, friend circles, airports, bookstores, even in the unlikeliest places. They say  she won’t come knocking at your door .  She won’t find you. You have to find her. But here’s the truth— I don’t know where to go. Where do you even begin searching for someone you haven’t met yet, someone you wouldn’t even recognize until your heart says, “There… that’s her”? It might sound dramatic. Maybe even foolish in today’s world of endless swipes and likes. But I believe in something else— Something slower. Something real. I believe in crossing paths. Not chasing. I want to meet her like you meet rain unexpectedly on a sunny day. Like two people missing their buses, sitting on the same bench for five minutes too long. Like two souls walking opposite directions but turning around at the same moment—without planning it, without expecting it. I want that eye contact where a thousand questions are asked a...