kintsugi

I will not shrink for love.

I will not dim my light to fit inside someone else’s shadow.

My heart deserves a steady flame, not a fleeting spark.

I vow to choose the ones who dance with me,

who laugh with me,

who grow with me.

If he cannot stand in my glow,

he does not get to dim it.

I am radiant, I am requited,

kindness feels like static electricity on my skin.

a hand brushing mine—

is it just gravity, or something more?

eye contact like a matchstick spark,

proximity like a tide pulling me closer,

and i drown in the overthinking.

i mistake warmth for fire.

a smile becomes a secret code,

a laugh becomes a confession,

and i’m left decoding a language

that might not even exist.

straight boys scare me.

not their faces, not their voices,

but the silence that follows

when i wonder too loudly.

their kindness feels dangerous,

like glass i’m afraid to touch.

sometimes i want to flirt back,

to toss a pebble into the water

and watch the ripples.

but shyness is my anchor,

keeping me still,

keeping me safe,

keeping me wondering.

my type?

tall, skinny, strange beauty—

faces carved like unfinished statues,

features that catch the light wrong

and make me ache right.

they do something to me,

something i can’t name,

something that feels like art.

so i sit here,

half afraid, half hopeful,

mistaking kindness for fire,

longing for sparks

Got into an Uber this morning thinking it was just a ride.

Plot twist: it was a rom‑com pilot episode.

Beard? Luxurious.

Voice? Silk dipped in honey.

Thighs in shorts? Steering both the car and my entire existence.

Every word he spoke felt like scripture. I stayed at the train station longer than necessary just to hear the end of his sentence, because what if that sentence was the cure to all my problems?

Normally, I’m the prophet of “men will leave you in the desert with no water.” But this man? This man would build me a five‑star resort in the desert, hand me a chilled cocktail, and say, “drink up, babe.”

We said goodbye like it was casual, but inside I was writing wedding vows. He told me to be safe. I told him to enjoy his coffee.

Translation: I love you, please father my delusions.

I sat there, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen, thinking about sending a message to the guy who ghosted me.

It’s been over a week. No reply. No explanation. Just silence. And yet, part of me wanted to break my own dignity, to reach out, to chase someone who already showed me exactly how little they value me.

His actions already spoke for themselves.

Silence is an answer. Absence is an answer.

If he wanted to, he would.

If he cared, he would show it.

If he respected me, he would act like it.

And he didn’t. That’s the truth.

Like I was lowering myself to beg for crumbs of attention from someone who only ever wanted sex, hookups, fleeting pleasure. Five minutes of their satisfaction in exchange for me shrinking my worth.

That’s not love.

That’s not being wanted.

That’s me betraying myself.

Then Liz’s voice echoed in my head—her video calling me out for even thinking about texting the ghost.

“Why would you chase someone who already showed you their capacity?”

It hit me like a slap of truth. I realized: I am not the one who needs to prove anything. I am not the one who needs to beg.

I spoke to my friend about it, and she reminded me: don’t go back to toxicity.

Don’t reopen a door that only leads to the bedroom, never beyond. She was right. I yearn for connection, but I keep falling into the same pattern.

Different faces, same behavior. Always the “straight” guy with a girl, dangling me on a leash, joking, teasing, flirting—but never stepping forward.

Never choosing me.

And I played the fool each and every time. I gave them my attention, hoping to get it back. I let myself believe that crumbs were enough.

But now—fuck that.

I refuse to wait for someone who ghosted me to come back and tell me I’m worthy. I refuse to keep repeating the same old story.

Because I am not a backup plan. I am not a secret. I am not a body to be used when it’s convenient.

Time: 01:03 AM

Location: My bed, where silence now lives

Mood: Ache wrapped in ritual

We kept playing. He kept misgendering me. And I kept letting it happen.

It became a daily ritual—the second I got home from work, we were online. At first, it was just games. Then it was staying up until morning.

Then it was less about the games and more about the conversations. The laughter. The softness. The way he made me feel like I was someone.

It’s been a week. No calls. No messages. Just silence.

At this time, we’d be deep in conversation. Now I lie in bed, typing this, missing him. Missing the way he spoke to me like I mattered. Missing the way I felt when I forgot to be afraid. He still hasn’t messaged me.

I get it. He came in guns blazing—affectionate, caring, kind. And I got scared.

Scared of falling for a guy who thinks I’m a girl.

Scared of being the exception he didn’t sign up for.

Scared of ruining something that felt good with a truth that felt dangerous.

We got close. He trusted me with something he hadn’t told anyone. I was his confidant.

Lately, I’ve been making excuses to skip plans—parties, hangouts, even casual meetups. I tell people I’m tired, busy, or overwhelmed. But the truth is simpler and harder to admit: I just want to be alone.

I retreat to my room, fire up a game, and let the digital world take over. It’s not just about entertainment—it’s about safety. In games, I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t have to manage social energy or fear rejection. I can just be.

But I’ve started to realize that this pattern, while comforting, is also isolating. I’ve let friends down. I’ve gone quiet. And I carry guilt for that. Not because I don’t care—but because I care deeply and feel too anxious to show it.

I’ve always had introverted tendencies, but lately they’ve felt more like walls than boundaries. I struggle with abandonment issues—this deep-rooted fear that if I show up as my quiet, withdrawn self, people will stop inviting me. So I preemptively disappear, convincing myself it’s better this way.

But it’s not.

🗓️ July 28, 2025

📍Front seat of the car, heart full

Tonight smelled like laughter and red wine.

We clinked glasses under soft lighting, in a restaurant that felt like a hug — the kind with linen napkins and tiny candles that flicker like they know your secrets. It was my friend’s birthday, but somehow the joy spilled over onto all of us.

I met new faces, heard new laughs, and watched the people I care about exist in their most unfiltered glow. No stage, no performance — just good food, good company, and the kind of love you don’t always have words for.

Now, back in the car, the buzz of the evening settling in my bones, I’m thinking about how sacred it is to show up. To dress up, toast the people you love, and say, “you matter to me” — not just in texts or thoughts, but in presence.

Celebration doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s a chair pulled out for you at the table. A laugh shared across a wine glass. A night you didn’t know you needed until it wrapped around you like a soft blanket.

Life is meant to be lived — not just survived.

And tonight, we lived.

Till next bloom,

I had just stepped off the train one day after work, standing outside the station waiting for a friend to pick me up. People came and went, but it felt like only she and I were truly there—still and separate from the rush.

A haze of weed hung in the air, familiar and unexpected. I turned to her, the only other person nearby. She stood with quiet confidence, a rolled joint between her fingers. I asked if she was smoking, and she simply said yes—then offered it to me.

I don’t usually smoke. But something in her presence made that moment feel sacred. We passed the joint slowly, and then she spoke: her son had died. He’d told her to smoke weed for her worries before he passed, and she was honoring his words—each breath a ritual.

There was no one else. Just her and me outside the station, held together by smoke, silence, and a grief that echoed something deep in me. When my friend arrived, I had to leave. But her story stayed.

Now, every time I step off at that station, I think of her. I glance around, wondering if she might be there again—if perhaps our lives will cross once more in that quiet pocket of understanding.

A few months ago I found myself falling for someone who could never love me the way I wanted, this at the time then making me hate them for it.

"how dare they not love me, I love them and can see a future so how can he not love me?"

at the end of the day, you can't force something if inevitably it won't work out. I then turned the love I had towards them and turned it inwards, feeding my soul with the love I allowed them to have.

durng this period in my life I learned to allow myself to appreciate and cherish the straight crushes in a way where it allowed me to learn more about myself, i found ways to love myself in ways I could never have imagined.

see everything as it is, an experience.