c.

hello, and welcome.

this is my little corner of the internet—a place for all the things i don't know what else to do with.

love letters that were never sent. poems written after midnight. songs that feel like memories. pressed flowers between pages. sapphic yearning. little moments i was too afraid to say out loud.

you can call me cherry, ma'am or darling.

if you want more NSFW go here: @rosetintedcherry

i'm 20, studying psychology, and i spend far too much of my life making playlists, collecting keepsakes, reading anything sapphic, and convincing myself the stars know something i don't.

here you'll probably find poetry, music, books, astrology, pretty things, cats, flowers, quiet thoughts, and the occasional glimpse into my heart.

if you stay awhile, i hope this blog feels like an old journal left open on a windowsill, pages softened by time and the scent of cherry blossoms.

take what you need. leave what you can.

i'm glad you found your way here.

I hope someone kisses your forehead when you're tired.

I hope someone remembers how you take your coffee.

I hope someone loves every version of you.

Selfishly,

i.

the moon knows how often i've whispered your name

into nights that were never supposed to belong to anyone.

ii.

i think the stars are just reminders

that even the darkest things

can still find a way to shine.

iii.

if you looked up at the same moon tonight,

i'd like to pretend

that counted as seeing you.

Every shade of pink looks prettier now.

i.

i collect little reminders of you

like they're rare.

they aren't.

they're everywhere.

ii.

some people leave footprints.

you leave entire constellations.

iii.

you've become my favorite coincidence.

I don't know what I did to deserve meeting you.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe love isn't earned—

i.

if i could, i'd leave little notes in all the places life forgets to be kind to you.

ii.

i don't pray often.

but when i do,

your name always arrives first.

iii.

i hope you never apologize for taking up space.

the world has always been brighter with you in it.

I think the universe made your laugh first—

Somewhere, before I ever knew your name, the world was quietly making room for you.

It painted another sunrise, counted another heartbeat, and decided it could become a little brighter.

Years later, I get to celebrate the day that kindness learned your voice, that laughter found your smile, and that someone with a heart like yours began changing lives without even realizing it.

So today, I hope the world loves you as gently as you've unknowingly taught my heart to love you.

There is something dangerous
about the way you exist.

Not in the loud,
heartbreaking kind of way—

but in the quiet way
that makes me imagine
a future I wasn't looking for.

Now I catch myself
wanting to tell you
about the little things.

The songs that reminded me of you.

The sunset that looked
like it borrowed your colors.

The funny story
I saved all day
just because I wanted
to hear you laugh.

I don't know
what we'll become.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

But if my heart
had a favorite direction,

There was something cruel
about the way I wanted her.

Not cruel from her—
she was soft in all the places
the world usually hardens people.
No, the cruelty was mine to carry:
wanting someone so badly
while pretending I could survive without them.

She became a habit in my bloodstream.
Every thought circled back to her eventually,
like birds returning home at dusk.

I wanted her attention,
her laughter,
the way her voice could turn an ordinary night
into something worth remembering.

I wanted to learn her completely.

To memorize the shape of her silence,
the things she loved accidentally,
the dreams she only admitted
when she was tired enough to stop hiding them.

And maybe the saddest part is
I would’ve loved her patiently.

Not in the loud way people write about.
Not with grand gestures or perfect words.
But in quiet devotion—
the kind that stays.

The kind that remembers.

She was sunflowers and summer air,
barefoot laughter in open fields,
golden light tangled in her hair
like the sun had chosen her
as its favorite place to rest.

Everything around her seemed brighter.
Not because she tried to be extraordinary,
but because joy followed her naturally,
the way sunflowers follow daylight.

She smiled like mornings in August—
warm, unhurried,
full of the quiet promise
that life could still become beautiful.

And loving her
never felt heavy.

It felt like laying in tall grass
while the world spun slowly above me.
Like windows rolled down on back roads,
music too loud,
her hand catching sunlight beside mine.

She taught me that softness
is not weakness.
That there are people
who bloom even after difficult seasons,
who still choose warmth
despite everything that tried to harden them.

I think that’s what sunflowers mean now.

Not longing.
Not loss.

i think some souls recognize each other
long before the people do

because from the moment you entered my life
something in me softened
like my heart finally found somewhere safe to rest

and now i carry pieces of you everywhere
in the songs i replay too many times
in the quiet moments of my nights
in every future i accidentally imagine

loving you does not feel sudden
it feels ancient
like my soul has been trying to find yours
for much longer than i understand

you left
with my heart still beating
between your hands,
and i spent months
learning how to convince it
that surviving
was the same thing as living.

i stitched myself together
with sleepless nights,
old songs,
and the hope
that maybe one day
your name would stop
sounding like a wound.

then you came back.

not to apologize.
not to ask how i'd been.
not because you missed me.

you came back
wearing someone else's happiness
like it was something
i should admire.

you spoke about them
with the same mouth
that once promised me forever,
as if i was meant to celebrate
the life you built
from the pieces
you broke off of mine.

it is a peculiar kind of cruelty—
to set someone's house on fire,
watch them rebuild it alone,
then knock on the door
just to tell them
how beautiful
your new home is.

perhaps you never meant
to be unkind.

perhaps you simply forgot
that hearts
do not stop remembering
just because you have moved on.

but there are some victories
that should remain quiet.

I think of you in the quietest moments—
when the world loosens its grip on me
and there’s nothing left to distract me
from the shape of your absence.

You are everywhere now.
In songs I never noticed before,
in the hollow side of my bed,
in every sentence I almost send
before deleting your name again.

I wonder if you miss me
in small ways too.
If something beautiful ever hurts you
because it reminds you
of what we almost were.

That word almost
has ruined me.

Because we were never nothing.
Nothing doesn’t linger like this.
Nothing doesn’t echo at 2 a.m.
or make ordinary days feel haunted.

I would have loved you carefully.
Not loudly, not temporarily—
but in the kind of way
that changes a person slowly,
like rain shaping stone.

I wanted her
in the quiet, ruinous way
oceans want the moon—
constantly,
helplessly,
pulled by something larger than myself.

It wasn’t just attraction.
It was hunger.

The kind that settles into your bones
and makes absence feel physical.
Like my hands were always reaching for her
even when I forced them still.

I wanted every version of her.

The laughing one,
the distant one,
the tired one who answered softly at night
like sleep was already pulling at her voice.
I wanted the parts of her
no one else thought to notice.

And God,
I wanted to be noticed back.

To be the first name she looked for.
The place her thoughts returned to naturally.
The person she craved
with the same unbearable intensity
that I craved her.

Because loving her felt like standing too close to fire—
beautiful enough to stay,
dangerous enough to ruin me.

Still, I would’ve burned there forever.

She was sunflowers in late July,
gold stitched into the edges of summer,
the kind of beautiful
that made the world feel softer just by existing in it.

Not delicate—
sunflowers never are.

They stand tall through heat,
through storms,
through days harsh enough
to make gentler things fold inward.
And still, they turn toward the light
like devotion is instinct.

That was her.

I think that’s why loving her felt inevitable.
Like waking up and finding sunlight
already waiting at the window.
Like warmth you don’t notice at first
until it’s gone
and suddenly everything feels colder.

I remember the way she carried joy carelessly,
scattering it into conversations,
into glances,
into ordinary moments
that became holy without permission.

And maybe she never knew
what she was doing to me.

How I began orbiting her quietly,
the same way fields of sunflowers
tilt themselves toward something
they can never quite touch.

Because that’s the tragedy of sunflowers—
they spend their whole lives
aching toward the sun,
only to watch it leave every evening.

And I think I loved her like that.

Faithfully.
Hopelessly.
With my whole chest turned toward her
even as she disappeared beyond the horizon.