A teremtèshez tèr kell

There’s a kind of love, or maybe it’s not love, maybe it’s something else entirely, that stays with you no matter how much time passes. It’s not the kind that breaks your heart all at once, but the one that leaves a quiet ache, a lingering thought of what could have been.

It starts small, like all big things do. A glance that lasts just a moment too long. A laugh that feels like it’s meant just for you and no one else. A fleeting, casual touch that somehow burns itself into your memory. It’s all totally innocent, at least at first. You don’t even realize what it is. But then, before you know it, she’s everywhere. Every random thought, every dream you actually remember, every silent wish before you close your eyes.

You tell yourself it’s just a crush, a passing feeling, but deep down, you know it’s more. She’s more. She’s the person who makes your world brighter and more colourful. She’s the person who sees you in ways no one else does—or at least you tell yourself that. In reality, maybe she doesn’t see you at all, not the way you want her to.

And so, you stay quiet. You tell yourself it’s better this way, safer. You let the connection live in unspoken words and stolen moments. The way her hand lingers on yours just a second too long when you hang out with friends. The way her eyes shine when it meets yours. The way her laugh feels louder when you are the one making her laugh. You start to think, Maybe she feels it too.

But you never ask. Perhabs because you’re afraid of what she’ll say, or maybe you’re even more afraid of what she won’t. Instead, you promise yourself, Next time.

Next time, you’ll be braver. Next time, the timing will be right. Next time, you’ll finally tell her everything you’ve kept quiet about.

But “next time” doesn’t come. Timing doesn’t wait for unspoken feelings or unmade decisions. Life moves on, and so does she—or maybe it’s you who moves on, or at least pretends to. The years pass, and what you felt for her fades into the background, quieter now but never quite gone. You convince yourself it was just a phase, a fleeting moment in a life full of fleeting moments.

And then, one day, she’s back. Out of nowhere, the universe pulls you together again. A text, a coincidence, a chance meeting in a city neither of you call home anymore. You agree to meet, just to catch up. It feels harmless, even exciting.

But when you see her again, it hits you like a wave. She’s still her—the way she smiles, her jokes, the way her laugh makes your chest tighten. It’s like no time has passed, like you’ve slipped back into the same unspoken rhythm. One coffee turns into hours of talking, walking, rediscovering. And for a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the universe brought you back together for a reason.

But then she mentions her. Her person. The one who makes her laugh the way you used to dream of. The one who holds the place in her life you once thought might be yours. She speaks about her with such love, such certainty, and all you can do is smile and nod, even as your heart feels like it’s shattering quietly in your chest.

And in that moment, you realize something: you don’t even know if she ever felt the same way about you. Maybe she did. Maybe there was a time when her gaze lingered on you the way yours lingered on her. Maybe there was a time when she lay awake at night, wondering what if, the same way you did. Or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe, for her, it was always just friendship, simple and uncomplicated.

You’ll never know. And some part of you doesn’t want to. Because if she didn’t feel it, it would hurt. But if she did—if she loved you, even for a moment, and you let it slip away—it would hurt even more.

She was your first. The first person who made you feel alive in a way nothing else ever has. The first person who taught you what it means to long for something, to ache for it, to carry it with you even when you know you shouldn’t. She was your first what if, your first unanswered question, your first regret.

How does this even happen? A man convicted of 34 felonies—a man directly involved in the January 6th attack on the U.S. Capitol —somehow gets not only to run for president again but to win. How does he come back, claiming the right to lead the very democracy he undermined? How does a nation so proud of its justice system, of its ideals of law and order, look the other way? Where is the line? What does it say about a system, about a nation, that turns a blind eye to his crimes? How can a country built on principles of freedom ignore that threat? At what point does a democracy stop being one?

And what about the women who dared to speak up? At least 26 women came forward to accuse him of sexual assaul. These women—brave and vulnerable—bared their stories, hoping their voices would be enough to hold him accountable. They risked their own peace, safety, and mental health, believing in the justice system, believing in truth. And yet, as he claims his office, what does it tell them? That no matter how many speak up, power and influence will drown them out? We are told again and again that an accusation can “ruin a man’s life.” But how ruined can his life be if he’s now the president once again? How hollow do those words sound to women who dared to stand up? What message does this send to women? That no matter how brave they are, their voices don’t matter? That their pain is somehow always less important than the power a man holds? How can anyone tell women to have faith in justice when justice looks away so easily, so willingly?

Then there’s the assault on women’s rights themselves. Look at what’s happened with Roe v. Wade, the protection of bodily autonomy stripped away, leaving millions of women with no say over their own bodies. This new government, with its conservative grip on the judiciary, is likely to tighten that hold, chipping away at autonomy and bodily freedom until little remains. People scoff at comparisons to The Handmaid’s Tale, but isn’t this a page straight from it? How does a woman find safety, find equality, when those who govern see her rights as disposable? And with the Supreme Court potentially packed with MAGA for decades to come, where is the hope for progress? What kind of future does that create for a generation of women? What does it say about freedom when one group’s autonomy is treated like an afterthought?

And then there’s the colossal denial of climate change. This man, who calls climate change a “hoax,” who refuses to believe in science while the world watches hurricanes grow stronger, wildfires rage hotter, and coastlines disappear. How can a leader turn his back on such a crisis? And how can voters in states already devastated by floods, wildfires, droughts still support him? How does that make sense? Are they so determined to pretend these disasters don’t exist, so eager to ignore reality? What happens when there’s no coastline left, when hurricanes devour towns whole, when the air is thick with smoke and the waters too high to contain? It feels like watching a nightmare unfold, knowing people have chosen it willingly, knowing they are burying their heads in the sand. But when that sand is swept away by rising oceans, what will be left?

And yet, people wonder how certain dictators rose to power in the past. They look back, horrified, asking how it happened, how no one stopped him, how the warning signs went ignored. But is the world not seeing the same thing now? Every sign, every pattern is there, and still, people turn away, hoping someone else will step in, that it will all work out on its own. But if no one intervenes, if the world stands by hoping for the best, where does this end?

One day, people will look back on this moment, asking how it was allowed to happen, how the world stood still and watched. And then, will they see it all with the same horror, asking why no one stopped it before it went too far?