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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...