Little Big Me

I wonder sometimes if there’s something in me that pushes people away. Maybe I speak at the wrong moments, or too softly, or too much. Maybe there’s something about me that people notice and quietly step back from.

Conversations feel like rooms I never learned how to walk through properly. I lose myself halfway through sentences, watch eyes drift past me, feel apologies gathering in my throat before I even finish speaking.

I don’t really understand why it happens. I just know that some nights, more than anything, I wish I did.

Then one day, we are… and all we want is to go back to simpler days— to warmth, to play, to a life without so many worries.

So be here, now.

Because someday—maybe—this will be the moment you wish you could return to.

I ache for quiet voices, for slow mornings and unhurried days, for warmth that doesn’t ask me to be anything other than who I am.

A place where nothing is raised but kindness, where silence feels safe, not heavy, where I am not told to grow faster, to be louder, stronger—less… me.

Just a voice that says— “it’s okay… take your time.” “You can feel.” “You can stay.”

Is that too much to long for? Or is it simply something rare— something soft that I have yet to find?

I wonder what it would feel like to finally rest, and not be afraid of who I am in someone else’s hands.

Because reading feels like living a thousand lives.

I fall in love like it’s the first time, over and over again, with souls that don’t even know I exist… and somehow, that makes it feel more real, more pure.

Books take me places my body has never been, but my heart somehow recognizes.

They let me feel things I’ve never lived, yet somehow understand.

I become everyone and no one at the same time — a stranger, a lover, a dreamer, a broken soul searching for something to hold on to.

I feel everything so deeply it almost aches — the longing, the joy, the emptiness, the hope.

And between those lines, I find pieces of myself I didn’t even know were missing.

Books are the only place where I can feel this much without being afraid, where my heart can break and heal at the same time.

They hold me in a way reality sometimes doesn’t.

They make me hopeful... hopeful that maybe one day I’ll live a love, a life, a moment that feels just as intense, just as infinite.

But if in the end I don’t… then at least, within those pages, I’ve already felt what it means to be alive.

Maybe I’m meant to fall in love in silence—with stories that linger in my chest, with poetry that understands me better than people do, with words that don’t touch my skin, but somehow still reach my soul.

Maybe I’m meant to fall in love with the feeling itself, with the quiet ache of something almost mine, with the kind of beauty that exists only for a moment… and then lives forever in memory.

And if that’s all I’m ever given—to feel deeply, even if only through fragments, through lines, through pages—then maybe…

maybe that’s not a lack of love at all.

Maybe that is love, in its purest, most untouchable form.

It’s not that I don’t care. I do. Just… not in that way. And I don’t want to pretend something I don’t feel, because that wouldn’t be fair to you.

I think I’ve changed with time, or maybe I’ve just become more honest with myself. It’s hard for me to feel something real, and I don’t want to force it just because it’s what’s expected.

I don’t need big words or promises. Those don’t really reach me. I notice the small things, the quiet ones… and when something is real, I feel it there. And right now, I don’t feel that kind of love growing in me.

I wish I could explain it better. I wish you could just understand what I mean without me having to find the right words.

I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to be honest, even if it’s uncomfortable.

I don’t know what comes next… but I don’t want to build something on something that isn’t truly there.

It’s doing something silly just to hear your laugh, listening to you talk about your day, and watching your eyes light up when you tell me about something you achieved.

It’s finding a way to see each other, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Holding your hand, spending time together, talking about random things and dreaming about the future.

It’s you remembering the little things that matter to me, taking care of me, noticing the details others would miss. It’s you understanding that my days are full of responsibilities, but that I will always try to find time for you — to call you, to listen, to see you, even if only for a moment.

But love is also you seeing that effort.

It’s you meeting me halfway.

It’s you finding a way too, not just me.

Because for me, love isn’t about sex.

It’s about you.

It’s about us.

I don’t even know what to call it. Jealousy? Hurt? A small, silent kind of rejection? Maybe it’s all of it at once.

Oh I wish I were different. I wish I could just smile and feel nothing. Be unbothered. Untouched. But I can’t.

Feelings don’t ask for permission. They just arrive. I can swallow them. I can pretend they’re not there. I can act like I’m okay. But I can’t make them disappear.

The sun on my skin, the waves in the distance, sand between my toes, the soft blue of the pool, the breeze brushing my face. Good music, simple food, quiet peace. And for a moment… I just am.

A little lighter.

A little happier.

A little more myself.

Exactly where I need to be.

There is still something there. Maybe time, and patience, can make it soft again. So if you’re really into this… stay. Not just for a moment, not just in words — but in presence.

It may sound selfish to ask you to wait, but love that is meant to last is never rushed.

And if you remain… one day you won’t just see my heart — you’ll feel it beating for you.

It doesn’t feel brave — it feels heartbreaking. But sometimes healing feels like loss before it feels like freedom. So if this is irreversible, let it be irreversible growth.

I don’t know. I just don’t feel like this is going anywhere. I need time to think. And I wish things hadn’t gone this far, to a point where there’s no turning back.

I can’t go back now. I can only try to fix it, even if it hurts. Even if we end up being strangers to each other again.

They say only those who risk it win… but what if love is the risk itself?