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...
An open diary where thoughts flow like ink—unedited, unscripted, unforgettable.