dearcarriebradshaw

I’ve always believed life feels more manageable when you tell it like a story — even if it’s one no one asked to hear.

This is mine.

I live in Melbourne. I’m single, emotionally unavailable, and constantly flirting with the idea of being more grounded — but never quite landing. I collect moments like evidence. Romanticise recklessness. Call it chaotic, call it coping — I just write it down.

This page is my diary, made public.

A place for the late-night spirals, the red flags I wanted to love into green, the men who never stood a chance but still got the best of me.

Think Sex and the City — if Carrie had a Notes app, worse decisions, and a tendency to ghost herself.

I’m not here to be wise. I’m here to make sense of the mess. Or at least make it sound good.

Read it like it’s fiction — but know it’s not.

xx

The funny thing about endings is they’re rarely as dramatic as you imagine. There wasn’t a screaming match. No slamming doors. Just two people sitting opposite each other trying to explain feelings neither of us really understood.

I told B it felt like we had become more than friends with benefits. Not because we’d labelled it, but because somewhere between the late night phone calls, the weekends together and caring about each other’s lives, it had stopped feeling casual.

As I was saying it out loud, though, something clicked. I didn’t actually know if I wanted a relationship with him. I just wanted an answer.

For months, I’d been addicted to the in between. The “does he want me or doesn’t he?” The anticipation. The almost. The possibility that one day he’d wake up and decide I was it.

Then he said something I’ll probably never forget.

He told me he could have happily kept “kicking the can down the road” until we were eighty because he was so complacent with me.

Eighty.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am a hopeless romantic. I’ll analyse song lyrics like they’re legal documents and convince myself eye contact means destiny.

But even I knew I deserved more than that.

So we ended it. He wanted to stay friends… We haven’t spoken in almost four months. And strangely I think that’s exactly how it needed to be.

Of course, life has a funny way of making sure one man exits just as another walks in.

Or in my case… several.

M has wandered back into my life.

You might remember him as Frozen Yoghurt Guy. The man who somehow managed to send me to hospital through a fingering mishap. Honestly, it should have been the biggest red flag of them all.

Instead, we’ve somehow cultivated the most bizarre relationship imaginable. Equal parts attraction and mutual annoyance. We disappear for months, reappear, sleep together, argue, text like nothing happened and then disappear all over again.

It’s less friends with benefits and more enemies with exceptional chemistry.

Healthy? Absolutely not.

Entertaining? Unfortunately, yes.

Then there’s the new guy… B the PT. Because apparently the universe has decided I only get to date men whose names begin with the same letter.

I’m not entirely sure where that’s heading yet. Which probably means I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And yes… The swimmer made another appearance. Because when life gets confusing sometimes you revisit what you know. And in my defence, it was still the best sex of my life.

Outside of the revolving cast of men, life has actually changed in ways that matter.

I moved in with my two best friends.

We’re living just around the corner from our favourite strip, which means Friday nights now begin with, “Should we just have one drink?” and inevitably end with someone ordering hot chips at two in the morning.

It’s chaotic. It’s loud. It’s exactly what I imagined twenty five would feel like.

Financially… Let’s just say my bank account and I are currently in a toxic relationship. I’m broke. Low key in debt with a shocking credit score….

But for the first time in years, I’m oddly optimistic.

Maybe it’s because I finally have a job I genuinely love. Maybe it’s because home actually feels like home again. Or maybe it’s because I’ve realised happiness and having your life together are not the same thing.

Next month, I turn twenty six.

I used to think every birthday meant I should have more answers. Instead, every year seems to hand me a completely new set of questions.

So here I am. Still single. Still making questionable decisions. Still probably spending too much money on nights out. Still occasionally treating my liver like it’s in its early twenties.

But somehow… I’m happier.

And I couldn’t help but wonder…

Well…

It’s been a while. About 6 months to be exact.

Truthfully, I don’t even remember where we left off.

Last I checked, I was having a quarter life crisis, convincing myself I wanted a Smith instead of a Big, developing feelings for the one man who was supposed to be just a friends with benefits, and questioning every romantic decision I’d made since I was twenty two.

So… business as usual.

Since then? A lot has happened. Some people have left. Some people have surprised me.

Some have reminded me exactly why my therapist deserves a pay rise.

And somehow, despite promising myself I’d become a calmer, emotionally regulated twenty five year old… here I am. Confused again.

Funny how that keeps happening.

I’ve realised I only really have two coping mechanisms.

The first is bottling everything up until it inevitably spills over at the most inconvenient time.

The second is writing.

The former is probably why my Notes app has over four hundred entries.

The latter is probably why you’re reading this.

So… welcome back.

I don’t know where this story is going. Truthfully, I don’t even know how I feel about half of what’s happened.

But maybe that’s the point.

Life has never waited for me to figure it out before throwing me into the next chapter.

And I couldn’t help but wonder…

Lately I’ve caught myself doing something strange — counting backwards, not by birthdays or relationships, but by years. Four of them. Four whole years that feel like they slipped past me without ever really being lived.

And the only way I can describe them is this: it’s all a blur of insomnia, heartbreak, depression and substance abuse.

It sounds dramatic when you write it down like that. But the truth is, it didn’t feel dramatic while I was inside it. It felt slow. Heavy. Repetitive. Nights staring at the ceiling willing sleep to come. Mornings where getting out of bed felt like dragging myself back into a life I wasn’t fully present for. Days where I smiled and said I was fine because explaining the truth felt far too exhausting.

Somewhere in that fog, I stopped participating in my own life and started just surviving it. And when survival mode takes over, you reach for whatever quiets the noise — even if it’s temporary, even if it costs you pieces of yourself you don’t realise you’re giving away at the time.

That’s the scary part about blur years. They don’t announce themselves as destructive or life-altering. They disguise themselves as coping. As distraction. As “just getting through it.” Until suddenly you wake up older, softer, and unsure where the time actually went.

I didn’t lose those four years. But I drifted through them — disconnected, hurting, numbing, pretending.

And maybe the real heartbreak isn’t just the love that left me during that time… but the version of me that disappeared with it.

Still, clarity has a way of arriving when the haze lifts. And now I can see those years for what they were — painful lessons, hard resets, and proof that sometimes you have to hit emotional rock bottom to finally choose yourself again.

So now I’m left with a new question, one that feels both terrifying and hopeful:

I was perched on my balcony the other night, wine glass in hand, phone face-down for once, and I stumbled across a quote about the “quarter-life crisis.” You know the one. That strange period where you’re technically an adult, yet every choice feels monumental and every decision about your life, love, and career somehow carries the weight of eternity.

These are the years where your friends seem to have it all figured out. Buying apartments, getting engaged, traveling the world with Instagram-perfect lives. And there you are, wondering if it’s normal to feel like a teenager who pays bills — someone who can file taxes but still doesn’t know who she wants to be or what she wants to love.

The quote didn’t scream or whine. It simply named the feeling: that low hum of panic that lives in your chest when you think you’re late to your own life. About watching other people move in timelines you never agreed to. About wondering if your choices — every flirtation, hookup, or career move — will matter when the dust settles.

And it got me thinking… when did growing up become something you were supposed to win?

Somewhere along the line, life became a scoreboard. Career: check. Love life: pending. Emotional stability: LOL. They call these the years that define us, but no one warns you how disorienting it feels to stand at the intersection of possibility, desire, and fear. To want everything — love, passion, adventure — and realize maybe it doesn’t all fit neatly on one timeline.

What struck me most was the quiet permission the quote gave: that maybe panic isn’t failure. Maybe it’s proof you care. Proof you’re brave enough to question yourself, your decisions, and your heart instead of settling for the easy or safe route.

Maybe the quarter-life crisis isn’t a pit to survive. Maybe it’s a season to live — wildly, messily, heartbreakingly, beautifully.

Male validation is alright… but have you ever tried substance abuse?

I know — it sounds flippant. A throwaway line you’d text your group chat at 1:47am with a martini emoji and a cry-laugh reaction. But like most jokes I tell, this one has a little too much truth hiding underneath the punchline.

Because lately, I’ve been wondering: when did attention start feeling like anesthesia?

There’s a particular rush that comes with being wanted. The buzz of a name lighting up your phone. The reassurance that someone, somewhere, is thinking about you — undressing you with their imagination, if not their hands. It’s intoxicating. Quick. Effective. And wildly temporary. Much like a drink. Or a line. Or whatever vice you tell yourself you’ve earned after a long week of holding it together.

And that’s when it hit me — male validation and substances have more in common than I’d like to admit.

Both arrive promising relief. Both tell you to relax, to stop thinking so much, to let go. Both whisper, you’re funnier like this, sexier like this, easier to love like this. And both leave quietly, usually before the morning light, taking their confidence boost with them and leaving you to clean up the emotional hangover.

I’ve never been someone who didn’t know this. I’m self-aware to a fault. I can psychoanalyse my own behaviour while actively engaging in it — a talent, really. But awareness doesn’t always stop the craving. Sometimes it just narrates it.

Because when you’re lonely — not dramatically, not desperately, but in that low-grade, lingering way — anything that makes you feel chosen feels medicinal. Even if you know it’s a short-term prescription with long-term side effects.

And the most dangerous part? Male validation doesn’t come with warning labels. No one tells you to take it in moderation. No one stages an intervention when you’re chasing it every weekend, every DM, every almost-something that never quite becomes anything. It’s encouraged. Applauded, even. At least she’s having fun, they say. As if fun and numbness aren’t sometimes the same thing in different outfits.

I’m not ashamed of wanting to feel desired. I refuse to be. But I am starting to question how often I use desire as a distraction — a way to avoid sitting alone with my own thoughts, my own feelings, my own unfinished healing.

So maybe the real question isn’t whether male validation is better or worse than substance abuse.

Maybe it’s this: When did I start needing anything external to convince me I’m okay?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Samantha from Stuck in Love. Not the manic pixie version of her, not the “damaged girl” label the movie tries to stick on her — but the quiet, guarded girl underneath. The one who uses distance as armour and casual sex as control. The one who feels everything deeply but pretends she doesn’t feel at all.

Samantha says she doesn’t believe in love. Or maybe she says she doesn’t need it. And I think that’s the part I recognise most — the way it’s easier to reject the idea of love than risk wanting it and not being chosen. If you convince yourself you’re above it, untouched by it, then it can’t hurt you. Right?

She keeps people at arm’s length, not because she’s cold, but because she’s terrified of being known. Of being seen clearly and still left. So she sleeps with people she doesn’t care about. Keeps things light. Keeps it brief. Keeps her heart out of it. Control masquerading as freedom.

And that’s where it gets uncomfortable — because I’ve been doing the same thing.

There’s a safety in being wanted but not known. In being desired without being vulnerable. It lets you feel powerful without ever having to risk your softest parts. Samantha isn’t reckless — she’s strategic. She chooses connections that can’t hurt her because they never really touch her.

But then there’s that ache underneath. The longing she refuses to name. The moments where her mask slips and you realise she isn’t numb — she’s overwhelmed. She feels too much, not too little.

Watching her, I realised something sobering: pretending you don’t want love doesn’t make you strong. It just makes you lonely in a very specific way.

Samantha isn’t afraid of love because she doesn’t believe in it. She’s afraid because she does.

And maybe that’s what I’m reckoning with now. That behind all my nonchalance, my “I’m fine,” my casual connections and emotional detours — there’s a girl who wants to be chosen, understood, and stayed for.

The difference is this time, I’m starting to admit it.

I’ve been thinking about Connell and Marianne again. Not because I want their pain, or their timing issues, or their spectacular ability to miss each other by inches — but because of the way their connection feels inevitable, even when it’s wrong, even when it hurts.

There’s a line in Normal People where Connell says, “I’m not a religious person but I do sometimes think God made you for me.” And every time I hear it, something in me tightens. Not because it’s romantic — but because it’s terrifying. Imagine feeling that sure about someone. Imagine letting yourself believe that a connection could be that intentional, that specific.

That’s what scares me about B.

Not that he’s perfect, or that we’re effortless, but that being with him feels… grounding. Like the noise quiets. Like I don’t perform. Like I don’t feel lonely when I’m sitting across from him, even in silence. “I never feel lonely when I’m with you.” Marianne says that, and it lands because loneliness isn’t about being alone — it’s about not being seen.

And B sees me. In the way that matters. In the way that changes you.

Another quote I can’t shake: “People can really change one another.” Not in a dramatic, cinematic way — but in the subtle rewiring of how you move through the world. I find myself calmer lately. More honest. More careful with my heart, but also more open to the idea that maybe I don’t have to be braced for impact all the time.

Connell and Marianne were never simple. They were mirrors. They pulled out each other’s wounds and softness in equal measure. And maybe that’s what I recognise — the way a connection can feel both safe and destabilising, like home and like risk at the same time.

I don’t know if B is my Connell. I don’t know if I’m his Marianne. And maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is that when you meet someone who makes you feel less alone in the world — really, deeply less alone — it changes the standard forever.

The danger isn’t in believing someone might have been made for you. The danger is pretending that kind of connection doesn’t matter.

And maybe the real question isn’t whether this is love, or timing, or fate.

I like B. That part feels simple when I say it out loud. It sits quietly in my chest, steady and familiar. He feels safe. He feels known. He feels like someone who actually sees me.

And yet — in the weeks since we admitted we were both confused about our feelings for each other, I’ve gone home with two other people.

Why did I do that?

If this were a show, this is the part where the audience groans at the screen and says, “Girl, what are you doing?” And honestly, I wish I had a clean, empowering answer. I don’t. All I have is the uncomfortable truth that my brain and my body don’t seem to be listening to my heart.

Maybe it was distraction. Maybe it was self-sabotage dressed up as spontaneity. Maybe it was me trying to prove to myself that I’m still unattached, still free, still not invested — because wanting someone feels dangerously close to needing them. And needing someone once cost me six years and a version of myself I’m still trying to fully get back.

Going home with them didn’t mean anything. That’s the cruelest part. No butterflies. No calm. No late-night conversations. Just noise. Just movement. Just the temporary relief of not having to sit with the question of him.

Because B makes me feel things that require responsibility. Clarity. Courage. And casual encounters don’t ask anything of me except to show up and then leave.

So maybe I wasn’t betraying my feelings — maybe I was running from them.

I don’t think this makes me heartless. I think it makes me scared. Scared of choosing wrong. Scared of choosing at all. Scared that if I lean in and it doesn’t work, it will confirm the quiet fear I carry — that love keeps slipping just out of reach, even when it’s right in front of me.

I like B. That hasn’t changed. If anything, the fact that I keep trying to drown that feeling out says more than I want it to.

It was never meant to be anything. That’s the lie I keep replaying to myself — the one that makes this all feel manageable. He was just something to keep me occupied. A way to pass the time. A laugh, a body, a familiar face. Funny. Easy. Not serious in the slightest.

And then, without warning, my heart started reacting before my brain could catch up.

Now I feel it — that stupid, undeniable jump — every time his name lights up my phone. A little rush. A pause. A breath I didn’t realise I was holding. He makes me feel calm in the way that quiet mornings do, but excited in the way that late nights promise. The kind of balance I didn’t realise I was craving until it showed up uninvited.

What scares me most isn’t how much I like him — it’s how much he makes me want to be better. Not in a performative way. Not in a “prove my worth” way. But in a soft, hopeful way. The idea of him wanting me makes me want to show up as the best version of myself. Healthier. Kinder. More grounded. More me.

And that’s where the fear creeps in.

Because if this doesn’t go the way I hope — if someone who truly sees me, who understands me the way I understand him, still doesn’t choose me — I’m terrified of what that will confirm in my head. That maybe there isn’t someone out there for me. That maybe this level of connection is as close as I’ll ever get. That if he doesn’t want me, then who will?

It’s dramatic, I know. Very me. Very Carrie. But heartbreak has a way of turning possibility into prophecy.

Still, I know one thing with absolute clarity: I can’t keep carrying this quietly. This isn’t something I can joke my way out of or bury under casual labels anymore. Whatever happens next — whether it brings me closer or breaks my heart — I need to tell B how I feel.

I didn’t plan to fall for B. In fact, if I’m being honest, he was supposed to be simple. A birthday hang that turned into a rhythm. Comfort. Chemistry. No expectations. Friends with benefits — the kind you think you can manage because you’ve survived worse.

And yet here we are.

He told me he likes me too. Said it gently, carefully, like someone handling glass. He said we’re a great match — but maybe also a wrong one. That we’re too similar. That what makes us work so easily might also be what makes us combust. He said he values me too much to risk losing me, that he’d rather have me in his life as a constant than gamble on something that might burn out. And the part that stayed with me most — he’s scared that if we keep going like this and he meets someone else, we won’t survive it. He doesn’t want a future where I disappear from his life.

The horrible thing is… I understand him.

I feel it too — that strange pressure to know by now. To have clarity. To be certain. Like if someone is “right,” it should arrive with a lightning bolt and a five-year plan. And because I don’t feel that certainty, I question everything. Him. Me. Us. But if I’m honest — truly honest — I don’t know if that’s intuition or just armour. A coping mechanism dressed up as logic. A way to keep my heart one step behind my feelings so it doesn’t get hurt again.

Because what I do know is this: I don’t want to lose him.

I like him because he gets me. Because he listens. Because being with him feels safe and charged at the same time — like laughter and late nights and conversations that stretch longer than they should. He’s become someone I reach for, not just physically, but emotionally. And that wasn’t part of the plan.

Maybe the hardest part of all is realising that sometimes the scariest loves aren’t the dramatic ones — they’re the quiet, steady ones that slide into your life and make themselves at home before you’ve decided whether you’re brave enough to let them stay.

And so I’m left wondering — is this one of those moments where the heart knows before the head catches up? Or is this just two people liking each other deeply and being too afraid to call it what it might become?

Lately, I’ve been spiralling — not in the dramatic, mascara-streaked, lying-on-the-floor way (well, not yet), but in that quiet, internal way that seeps into your thoughts at 2 a.m. when your phone is still warm from a conversation with someone you might actually like.

Ever since my six-year relationship ended three years ago — the one that carried me through my formative years — I’ve questioned everything. My worth, my judgment, my ability to trust, and especially my heart. I’ve never really let anyone all the way in since. My foot has always hovered near the door, just in case I need to run before they do.

Now, here I am again, liking someone I never expected to. B. The funny, safe, easy-to-talk-to guy who feels like home but also feels dangerous because of what that comfort could mean. I know I have a crush. I like spending time with him. I like how he listens, how he looks at me, how he makes me laugh. But when I try to imagine something long-term — something real — my mind goes blank.

Do I see forever with him? Honestly, I don’t even know if I see forever with anyone anymore.

Including myself.

It’s a jarring realisation — that somewhere along the way, I stopped believing in permanence. Maybe because I’ve seen how quickly love can crumble, or maybe because I’ve grown too good at detaching.

It’s official — we’ve crossed into new territory.

The “friends with benefits” chapter with B has evolved into something that feels far less physical and far more emotional.

It’s been three weekends in a row now — dinners, sleepovers, lazy mornings that somehow turn into afternoons. And as if that wasn’t telling enough, we already have plans for this Friday night, too. I don’t know when casual turned into consistent, but here we are — scheduling each other into our lives like it means something.

We now talk — and not just in the “what time are you coming over?” sense. Actual, deep, meaningful, soul-baring conversations. One night, we talked on the phone for four hours — until 3 a.m. The kind of conversation where you start laughing about something stupid, then somehow end up talking about your fears, your future, and the people who hurt you.

He genuinely asks how I’m doing. And not in that lazy, half-hearted “you good?” kind of way. He listens. He remembers things I said weeks ago. He’s patient when I ramble, and funny when I’m too serious. He’s the kind of person who makes silence feel comfortable.

And I know what you’re thinking — this isn’t friends with benefits anymore.

It’s something else.

We still laugh about being “just friends.” We still joke about being “boyfriend and girlfriend” with that nervous laugh that pretends it’s not real. But every time he says, “We’re not dating,” it feels like a tiny dagger wrapped in honesty.

Because I know he means it.

And I know I’m the one who set the rule in the first place.

But now, every time we hang out, it feels a little less like fun and a little more like falling.

I keep telling myself not to say anything — that I’ll ruin it, that it’s probably all in my head. But I can’t help but wonder:

When you start to feel something real with someone who swears they don’t want real…

My DMs are… well, a little problematic. Four guys with the same name — two of which I’ve already slept with. Does girl math mean they cancel each other out? I’m choosing to believe it does.

Scrolling through the messages feels like flipping through a highlight reel of emotional unavailability — guys who only want one thing, guys who say they want more but ghost when things get real, and guys who mirror my own chaos a little too well. It’s like a dating app roulette where every spin lands on the same type of man in a slightly different font.

Maybe deleting Tinder and Hinge would be a good start. A digital cleanse. A quiet reset.

But if I’m honest? Right now, I’m not ready to let go of the attention.

Because sometimes the dopamine hit from a flirty message is easier to crave than the uncertainty of genuine connection.

So, for now, I’ll let them boost my ego — and I’ll keep replying to the one who actually listens when I talk.

My last day in the office — and my last day with the company — felt like the end of an era I wasn’t sure how to say goodbye to. The day was a blur of boozy team lunches, countless coffee catch-ups, and the oddly sentimental task of cleaning out my laptop. You never realize how many screenshots, draft emails, and half-written notes you’ve accumulated until it’s time to delete them all.

When the clock hit five, that was it. Done. No more Teams messages, no more Monday meetings, no more pretending to look busy when I was actually scrolling Seek. I left with that strange cocktail of relief and nostalgia, the kind that tastes like freedom with a twist of what now?

To celebrate, I went for drinks with a friend — the same friend who, in true rom-com irony, had recently started dating the Irish guy from the office I’d drunkenly hooked up with months before. Yep. That guy. The one with the accent that made HR policies sound sexy.

So there we were: me, my friend, the Irish lad, and his mate, all out for drinks. We joked that we were the “office throuple,” confusing strangers at the bar as we told our ridiculous story — how corporate life, too much wine, and questionable judgment had tangled our lives together in the most unexpected way.

And honestly? It was perfect. A weird, funny, slightly messy but completely fitting end to that chapter of my life.

I made sure they both knew I was genuinely happy for them. No bitterness, no awkward tension — just laughter, good company, and that freeing feeling of moving on.

B and I spent so much time together over my birthday. We laughed, we drank, we did what we always do — that effortless, familiar rhythm of inside jokes, shared looks, and just enough sexual tension to keep things interesting.

A few weeks later, I saw him again and thought, okay, this is good. This is fine. I finally felt content with the fact we were friends with benefits — nothing more, nothing less. We even talked about the girl he had a crush on, and I told him about the guys trying to take me out on dates. It was light, easy, and fun. Just two friends who sleep together sometimes, talking about everyone else we should be seeing.

But then came this past weekend — the one right after my slutty cougar escapades (which, for the record, I only told him half of). Things felt a little… different.

He told me that the girl he’d been crushing on was no longer in the picture — apparently she’d gone home with one of his mates. (Don’t worry, his mate had no idea B liked her — small mercies.) And as he said it, I almost got excited. Excited. Not very “just friends” behaviour, is it?

We talked about it, and somewhere in the middle of his mild sadness, he looked at me and said, “as much as I hate to admit it, you’re one of the only people in my life I’m actually vulnerable with.”

Oh yeah. That one hit.

We talked about everything — my resignation, my future, the weird limbo I’ve been in — and he just… got it. Like he always does. And suddenly, I realized we weren’t just talking about sex or our next night together anymore. We were really talking. Every day. About everything.

Then Friday came. And Saturday. And he stayed both nights.

We laughed until 2 a.m., had sex that we both agreed was the best either of us had ever had (and for once, that wasn’t just pillow talk — it was the kind of chemistry that makes you forget your own name). Somewhere between the laughs, the confessions, and the way he looked at me mid-sentence, I realized something terrifying: I might actually like him.

We joked about dating — both of us immediately calling it “gross,” because that’s the rule. Friends with benefits, not lovers. Never lovers.

But after this weekend, it feels like something has shifted.

It’s probably all in my head — or maybe it isn’t.

Either way, I’m not ready to have that conversation yet.

So for now, I’ll just let it play out and see what happens.