meeza🌙

If you ever read this, know that I loved you in that quiet, ruinous way, where the soul bends first, long before the body follows. There are truths I cannot speak aloud, so I let the ink suffer them instead, bleeding what my mouth refuses to betray.

The ceiling fan faltered like a tired confession, the street dogs barked desperately in the distance, and the chai on the stove was burning but neither of them moved. The room was a mess. Sweat and love, unwashed utensils and ashtrays. Her legs were folded under her like a long kept secret, his eyes fixed on the gap between her shirt and skin, where the sweat gathered like truth. He took a drag of his mint marlboro then leaned in and exhaled the smoke into her parted lips, so slow and so deliberate as she breathed him in like she’d been starving for something that burned. The city outside begged for attention, the ugly horns, vendors, a collapsing sky with sunset pink and bruised red, but inside, they sat in silence, so loud it almost blistered. “If I breathe any closer, I’ll become the thing you run from,” he said, feeling so human with a voice barely alive. She didn’t answer. Just placed his hand over her heartbeat, where it trembled like a sentence not yet written.

Every time his eyes met mine, I felt undone, not in shame, but in something worse, I would say recognition. I had spent years dressing myself in metaphors, hiding behind poetry, and he noticed those exact unseen parts of me. There was this moment when he looked at me as if I were a paragraph he was reading and didn’t want it to finish and in that moment I felt seen, alive, I understood that intimacy is being peeled until you learn someone’s soul, intimacy is not closeness, it's exposure. There was no shame in how he saw me. But the recognition, God, the recognition, it stripped me raw. It was the fact that I could no longer hide behind clever language or the softness I wore like perfume. He didn't reach for me, yet I felt exposed. He built a temple with my stillness and could read my silence like scripture, but sweeter, sharper, more exact. There's nothing more intimate than being seen exactly as you are and not being interrupted. It felt as if I had walked willingly into the mouth of someone holy.

Sometimes I hated how much I loved him, how he could undo my entire sense of self with one look from across the room. I’d be trying to breathe normally, wipe the counter, exist, and then he’d say something like, “You ruin my peace, and I want you closer for it.” He touched me like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make love to me or vanish inside me. I think we never actually kissed for pleasure, it was always some war-stained surrender. I wanted him to beg, he wanted me to break. And yet, he’d carry my grocery bags with the tenderness of a man holding a newborn dream. Some nights I’d cry while he was inside me, and he wouldn’t ask why - he’d just hold my jaw and say, “I know.” That was our love: quiet rage, interrupted by too much tenderness. We didn’t save each other. We simply stayed until the wreckage looked like home.

At 2:43 a.m - I turn the lamp off. Not to sleep, but to disassemble myself. I lie still, like a witness, and begin the nightly procession of shame. I remember the day in seventh grade when the people I called friends pulled the chair away just as I was about to sit. I fell, hard, in front of the entire class. Everyone laughed. I forced a laugh too, because I didn’t know how else to survive the humiliation. But it stayed inside me like a bruise I kept pressing. I remember the way I said “thank you” too many times in that office interview when I didn’t get the job anyway. And how I still whisper “sorry” at least thrice every time my shoulder brushes someone else’s on the train, elevator, cafés, as if my very presence is intrusive, like I’ve interrupted the world simply by existing. These aren’t disasters. They’re minor, ordinary humiliations no one else would recall. But they sit inside me like relics, polished over time. And I’ve started to think that being human isn’t about surviving war or heartbreak, but about surviving Tuesday afternoons where no one noticed you left the room, and the ache that follows you into decades. And I think, maybe the true punishment of consciousness is not the suffering we endure, but the sheer detail in which we remember what no one else even noticed. Maybe consciousness is just memory refusing to rot.

The cruelest part of growing older is not the breaking, but how quietly we learn to live broken - how we bury our weeping behind “I’m good” and call it strength. We walk among the walking wounded, saints of sorrow, prophets of suppression, each of us dragging crosses no one dares acknowledge. There is a choir of aching in every office hallway, a baptism of fatigue in the grocery line, and none of us say a word. We crown each other with half-hearted “how are yous” while dying inside like martyrs of mundanity. People carry heartbreak like scripture in their bodies - grief passed down like sacred bloodlines, and all they get is a nod, a shrug, an “it is what it is.” I want to scream sometimes - not for help, but for witness. I want someone to see the altar I’ve built from my silence, the burnt offerings of joy I gave away to survive. But I don’t scream. I do what the world asks. I move through the hours like a shadow dressed in skin. I clock in. I eat. I perform. I swallow my sorrow and call it discipline. And somehow, the world keeps spinning. Yet, I exist. I don’t scream. I sit quietly. I drink my water. I get through the day, one task at a time. And that becomes my story.

the want to write you as a literature, a romance, that everyone reads, falls in love with, but only i savvy its real essence