MooonBird

not because life is terrible,

but because it isn't.

My family still asks if I've eaten.

My boyfriend still shares pieces of his day.

I am loved.

That is what makes it harder.

Everything is almost perfect,

except for the quiet voice inside me

that keeps asking

what it would be like if everything simply stopped.

Then I think of the aftermath

my mother's grief,

my family's laughter learning how to limp,

my boyfriend reading old messages,

looking for answers that were never there.

So I stay.

Partly for them.

Partly because I'm afraid.

Afraid of pain,

afraid of being wrong,

afraid of my own hands.

And so I keep choosing tomorrow,

caught between two impossible wishes:

to disappear,

and to never hurt anyone.

Maybe that is the loneliest part

that everything can be beautiful,

and still a part of you

"I don't know."

"That's not a very reassuring answer."

(Stop loving you?

I have spent entire days looking for traces of you in ordinary things. In songs I've heard a hundred times before. In crowded streets. In the way the evening light falls through my window.

But love has never frightened me.

Time does.

People leave. Cities change. Promises crack under the weight of real life. I have learned that wanting something forever does not mean forever wants you back.

If life is kind, I'll love you for years.

If life is cruel, I'll love you long after I shouldn't.

One day, someone will ask me about the happiest parts of my life, and your name will arrive before I can stop it.

Maybe love ends. Maybe it doesn't.

All I know is that if I ever stop loving you, it won't be because I chose to.)

"What don't you know?"

"If I'll ever stop loving you."

"Oh."

"Of course I am."

"Then why did you hesitate?"

(Because happiness feels like such a small word for what you've become. You're in my morning alarms and my late-night thoughts. You're the person I want to tell things to before they've even happened.

You're the reason I look at my phone and smile without realizing it.

And that terrifies me.

Not because I doubt you.

Because I know how much it would hurt to lose you.

You have become so woven into my life that I can no longer tell where I end and where you begin.

The truth is, I am happy. I am just afraid of how much of my happiness belongs to you.)

"I was just thinking."

"About what?"

when lines became blurry.

There were messages,

screens glowing late at night,

words that made me uncomfortable

yet somehow kept me reading.

There were moments in real life too—

lingering touches,

things I laughed off,

things I stayed silent about.

Now, years later,

the memory doesn't come with answers.

I sit with questions instead.

Was I scared,

or was I curious?

Did I freeze,

or did I allow it?

Was I pressured,

or did I go along because

I didn't know how to say no?

The confusion hurts almost as much

as the memory itself.

Because trauma is not always

a clear before and after.

Sometimes it is a maze

where you keep retracing your steps,

wondering if you imagined the danger

or walked into it willingly.

But I was young.

And sometimes being young means

not understanding what is happening

in watching someone you love suffer

while you stand miles away,

holding nothing but worry in your hands.

I wish distance was something I could fight.

I wish love alone was enough to protect you.

But all I can do is stay awake at night,

hoping the world is being gentler to you than it feels.

And helplessness hurts more

when the person being hurt is someone you

At this age,

love feels like a city glowing at midnight

beautiful from afar,

dangerous when you get too close.

It started slowly,

with shared rides in the early morning,

sleepy conversations on the way,

and tired evenings that somehow

always felt lighter together.

A different city held us for a while.

Late-night movies playing softly,

your arm around me half-asleep,

learning the comfort of someone

existing beside you in silence.

We became closer there

not just in touch,

but in the way two souls slowly

stop feeling alone.

Your hand brushing against my thigh

under crowded tables,

fingers teasing mine

when nobody was looking,

that quiet tension between us

making my heartbeat impossible to ignore.

And every stolen touch

sent chills rushing through me,

the kind that made me look away smiling

while secretly wishing

you would do it again.

I remember telling you

about the parts of me I hid from everyone else,

the fears, the hurt, the memories

I carried like heavy luggage.

And you looked at me so simply,

like loving me was never difficult.

“Bring them on,” you said.

“You are a me problem.”

And somehow,

for the first time,

my scars did not feel terrifying.

We said “I love you”

before the world called us anything.

Back when feelings lived quietly

between lingering glances and unfinished sentences.

And now,

we still say it every night,

like a promise tucked gently

before sleep takes us away.

Maybe that is what love in your twenties is

finding someone

who makes unfamiliar cities feel like home,

who holds your pain without fear,

who memorizes every version of your silence,

and who keeps choosing you,

softly,

I wish we talked more

not about the big things,

but the small ones people forget.

The songs stuck in your head,

the dreams you barely remembered,

the way your voice softened

when you were half asleep.

I miss the conversations

that never happened

the late-night honesty,

the unnecessary updates,

the “I saw this and thought of you”

kind of love.

We had silence

when we could’ve had stories.

Distance

when we could’ve had comfort.

And now I replay

all the moments

we could have filled

with words meant only for us.

Because sometimes

a relationship doesn’t fade

from lack of love

just from too many things

It's not fate or chance or cliches like " the heart wants what it wants".

We choose our partners because they represent unfinished business from our childhood. And we choose them because they have the quality we wish we had.