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There hasn’t been a single day when she hasn’t crossed my mind. Not one morning without a memory. Not one night without a replay. And still… I never reached out. Not because I was confused about what I felt. Not because I doubted my worth. And definitely not because I stopped caring. I stayed silent because I knew. I knew what was unfolding behind my back. I didn’t have proof wrapped in evidence, but I had patterns. I have always overthought — excessively, obsessively, to the point where it exhausts me. But the strange curse of my mind is this: every time I dismiss my instincts as paranoia, time proves them right. It’s not a gift. It’s not intelligence. It’s just pain arriving early. Today I saw her. I was riding, lost in my own rhythm, when a familiar silhouette caught my eye. For a second, time thinned. My hands tightened on the handle. I don’t think she noticed me. Or maybe she did. Maybe I just prefer believing she didn’t — because if she did, and still chose to look through me, th...

They say I didn’t try. That I didn’t fight hard enough. That I didn’t understand her. That I didn’t put in the kind of effort other people did. I’ve heard it enough times that sometimes I almost start believing it. But here is the truth no one saw. I did try. Not in the loud, dramatic, movie-like way. Not with constant messages, not with chasing, not with showing up everywhere she went just to prove a point. I didn’t flood her phone. I didn’t compete with other men trying to impress her. I didn’t turn love into a marketing campaign. Maybe that’s where I failed in their eyes. Because the world mistakes noise for effort. They said others tried harder. That others flirted more. That others were more charming, more persistent, more visible. They told me my effort must have been one-tenth of theirs, so small that she probably didn’t even notice. But since when did love become a competition? Since when did it turn into a scoreboard? I wasn’t trying to win her like a trophy. I wasn’t trying t...

Today started like any other casual conversation. A group of friends, random topics, laughter drifting in and out. One of them spoke about a girl he likes—how her eyes pulled him in. Sharp eyes, innocent eyes. The kind that make you pause mid-sentence. I had seen her too. Barely two days. Not long enough to know her, but long enough to notice something rare—an honesty in the way she looked at the world. And then today, we saw her again. She was sitting beside a boy. Sharing food. Laughing softly. Close—not the distant, harmless closeness of colleagues, but something warmer, something familiar. I don’t know why, but the innocence I had noticed earlier felt… absent. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was overthinking. I do that a lot. I know. But here’s the thing—I’ve wanted to be wrong so many times in my life. Desperately. Yet somehow, I’m right every damn time. Maybe that’s why I trust so few people. Not because I think everyone is bad, but because I see patterns before others admi...