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There comes a moment in everyone’s life when they stand at a crossroad — one path paved with comforting lies, the other rugged with harsh truths. And I’ve learned, painfully and over time, that I would rather stumble down the latter. I wasn’t always like this. I used to give people the benefit of the doubt, used to cling to the hope that maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed. That maybe someone’s silence didn’t mean they were ignoring me, that maybe broken promises had valid reasons, that love still existed even when it had stopped showing up. But lies have a way of dressing up beautifully. They wear the scent of comfort, they come softly with half-smiles and “I’ll call you back”s, they whisper “everything’s fine” even as your gut is screaming that it’s not. I’ve lived in that kind of lie — smiling through uncertainty, making excuses for someone else’s changing behaviour, blaming myself for the unease that kept growing louder inside me. And one day, I broke. Not because someone sc...

I wish I was wrong. I genuinely do. Because if I were wrong, maybe I’d still have peace. Maybe I’d still have people around. Maybe I wouldn’t be carrying the weight of every assumption that turned out to be true. They say overthinking kills happiness, and they aren’t wrong. I’ve spent nights wide awake, dissecting every word, every pause in a sentence, every delayed reply, every shift in energy. While others moved on easily, I would still be stuck in the loop — “Why did that feel off? Why did they suddenly stop being the way they used to be?” I used to hate myself for overanalyzing everything. Friends would tell me, “You’re imagining things. Don’t ruin something good by thinking too much.” And I would try. God, I tried to stop. I silenced my gut, labeled it paranoia, buried it under logic and forced trust. But each time, the truth would resurface. Quietly. Slowly. Painfully. The friend who I thought was talking behind my back? Turns out they were. The person I felt was drifting away em...

Sometimes, I wonder if love was ever meant to heal, or if it was designed to test how much pain a heart can endure before it breaks. You grow up believing in fairy tales—two people meet, fall in love, and the world around them becomes a blur. But no one tells you that in reality, love isn’t just about butterflies and long walks. It’s about adjusting, accepting, doubting, hurting… and yet staying. I used to think love would bring peace. But what it really brought was layers of emotions that I wasn’t ready for. The moment you start loving someone, you unknowingly sign up for jealousy, fear, expectations, and sometimes, heartbreak. It doesn’t even have to be something big. Just watching her talk to someone else, even casually, hurts. You tell yourself not to overthink, but your heart never listens. And slowly, anger creeps in—not because she did something wrong, but because you’re afraid she might stop choosing you. Then comes the pressure—the invisible weight of responsibility. You want ...

There was a time I believed in “maybe they’re just busy.” That life happens, deadlines pile up, and people forget to reply — especially when there’s nothing urgent on the table. I convinced myself that silence doesn’t always mean disinterest. I gave the benefit of the doubt, more times than I should have. But eventually, patterns speak louder than intentions. I remember this one connection I had. Not just a fleeting one — this person was important to me. We used to talk every day, constantly updating each other on the little details of life. Even random texts had depth. “Did you eat?” meant “I care.” “I saw something and thought of you” was the kind of message that made me smile at my phone. It felt mutual. Natural. Until it didn’t. The replies started getting shorter. The time gaps between them got longer. The tone changed. It was all still polite — but the warmth had disappeared. I began noticing that they only reached out when they needed something — a suggestion, a reference, a fav...

Every morning I wake up with one quiet thought echoing in my mind:  What if this is my last day? Not out of fear. Not out of sadness. But out of a strange clarity. I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow. I don’t even know if anyone would notice if I wasn’t. And maybe that’s why I’ve stopped waiting for perfect moments or the right time. Life doesn’t promise that. There was a time I used to overthink everything—what people would say, how I looked, whether I was good enough, smart enough, liked enough. I kept chasing approval, hoping something would make it all feel worth it. But every night ended with the same question:  Why does it still feel empty? And then one day, something changed. Not because something major happened, but because I just got tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of doubting. Tired of living like I had all the time in the world. So I stopped. Now, I live like today is all I have. If I feel something, I say it. If I want something, I try. If something doesn’t sit ri...

I never used to think much about expectations. Maybe because I didn’t have many from people. Or maybe because I never allowed myself to go that far. But things changed the day I started caring about someone more than I intended to. At first, everything felt light. Effortless. Conversations flowed without pauses. A simple “how was your day?” from them made mine. I didn’t expect them to check in. I didn’t wait for replies. I didn’t look for signs in their texts or their tone. But slowly, without warning, expectations crept in. I started noticing when they replied late. I began replaying conversations in my head—wondering if I said too much, or too little. I started expecting them to be there—not just randomly, but consistently. I expected them to understand the things I never said aloud. It’s strange how the shift happens. One day you’re okay with silence, the next day it feels like neglect. The worst part? They didn’t change. I did. They were still the same person—kind, funny, caring in...

I don’t even know when it began — this cycle of hope, connection, disappointment, repeat. Maybe it started the first time someone made me believe I mattered, only to slowly back away when I started believing it. It always begins the same way. They smile a little extra, remember the small things I say, text back quickly at first, and laugh a little too easily around me. And for a moment, it feels like maybe — just maybe — this could be something real. So I start letting my guard down, bit by bit, like peeling off armor I’ve worn for years. I start sharing more, caring more, and in return, expecting something that matches the effort. But then, without warning, things change. The replies come slower. The eye contact shorter. The warmth begins to fade like it was never there. Suddenly, I feel like I’m the only one still standing on the bridge we built together, wondering when they walked off without saying a word. And I always ask myself —  was it me? Was I too much? Too honest? Too ho...