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Yesterday was such a great day, until it ended with heartbreak.

My favorite thing in the world, my new baby, my film camera...broke right in the middle of me having fun. Maybe it was my fault, or maybe it just happened to teach me something.

Everyone has their own hobby. Mine has always been taking pictures. I want to take photos of everything, without boundaries. Ever since I fell in love with film photography, it has felt like love at first sight. I simply came across it, and somehow, I knew I loved it.

There are no words to describe that feeling. The excitement of pressing the shutter, then waiting to see the results. Film taught me to slow down. To be patient, to trust the process, and to truly enjoy every moment instead of rushing to the end. No words could ever fully explain what it means to me.

My heart is genuinely shattered.

Maybe this is the end of my film era. I finally bought a new camera as an upgrade, only for it to break. Maybe it's a sign that it's time to move on.

But God, it feels like heartbreak.

Today, I ate lunch alone.

To be fair, it’s not unusual for me to eat alone, but it has been happening more often lately. I used to think solitude was something difficult to endure. These days, though, I find comfort in it. Maybe it’s part of growing up. Maybe it’s just adulthood.

I don’t really know how I felt today. I laughed. I talked to people. I went through the motions like everyone else. But whenever I was alone, my mouth stayed shut while my mind refused to stop talking.

I woke up feeling awful this morning. The kind of awful that sits heavily on your chest before the day has even begun. For a moment, I caught myself thinking that if a car hit me on the road, would it really make any difference?

Maybe not.

I’ve experienced the loss of people before, and I know life moves on. The pain people feel eventually fades. Give it a few months, maybe a year, and they continue living their lives. Perhaps they remember you from time to time. At least, I hope they do.

Lately, I’ve been feeling sad for no reason I can explain. I feel like a failure. No matter how hard I look, I can’t seem to find anything good about myself anymore. I can’t see my strengths. I can’t see anything positive. Everything feels dark. Everything feels negative.

I keep telling myself this feeling is temporary, but it’s been weeks now. I don’t know how much longer it will stay.

Nothing really excites me anymore, not people, not my hobbies, not even the things I used to enjoy. It feels like I’m just existing instead of living. I don’t have the same desire to keep moving forward that I used to.

I know this sounds pathetic, but this is the only place where I can say the things that keep circling inside my head.

So, for tonight, I’ll leave them here.

It's been a few weeks now, and I still feel the same heaviness sitting inside my chest. Some days, it feels unbearable. I wake up tired, go through the motions of the day, and carry this constant feeling that I am failing at everything.

I feel like a bad person. An ungrateful daughter. An irresponsible worker. A disappointing friend. No matter how hard I try to be better, there is always a voice in my head telling me that I am not enough. It follows me everywhere. Every achievement, every compliment, every small victory gets dismissed as the bare minimum. Nothing ever feels worthy of being celebrated. Instead, I focus on all the things I could have done better.

I wish I could see myself the way other people do. Maybe then I would find something good in me. Right now, all I can see are my flaws.

I know I have attachment issues. I get attached too easily, and I hate when people leave. I hate change. I hate the feeling of losing something or someone I care about. Yet I understand that nothing lasts forever. Everything is temporary. People come and go. Seasons change. Life moves on whether I am ready for it or not. Knowing that truth does not make it hurt any less.

The hardest part is trying to explain what I am feeling. How do you describe a pain that has no shape? How do you explain a sadness that settles into your bones and refuses to leave? I do not have the right words for it. I only know that it is there.

I am tired of crying. I am tired of feeling misunderstood. Sometimes I stay silent because I do not know how to express what is happening inside me. Sometimes I stay silent because I am afraid that no one will understand. But my silence hurts the people I love, and I hate that. I never want to be the reason someone feels pushed away.

I want to talk. I want to reach out. I want to tell people what is going on in my head. But every time I try, the words get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. So I keep everything to myself and carry it alone.

I am tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. The kind that lingers deep inside. The kind that comes from fighting battles no one else can see.

I do not know how to make this pain smaller. I do not know how to make myself feel lighter. All I know is that it hurts, and I am exhausted from pretending that it doesn't.

Maybe tomorrow will be easier. I hope it will be.

We met. We talked.

It's been so long since we last met.

I didn't have the courage to talk to you. In fact, I didn't even want to. But you were the one who came to me and started the conversation. You shared little updates about your life, and not once did you mention her name.

God knows how much I've missed you.

The dream felt so real that, for a moment, I forgot it was only a dream. Deep down, I know it would never happen in real life.

I want to wish you happiness, I really do. But there’s a part of me that still hopes you’re not happy with her. It’s selfish, I know. I hate that I can even think that way, but it’s the truth. This is the only place I can admit it, because you’ll never read this anyway.

It has been five or six years since high school ended. Time has stretched itself generously between who I was and who I am now. I have met new people. I have had other crushes. I have experienced different versions of almost. And yet, somewhere deep inside, there is still a quiet space shaped exactly like him. Not loudly. Not obsessively. Just… permanently.

We were good as friends. That is the simplest truth. We laughed easily. We shared moments that felt light and sincere. Nothing dramatic ever happened between us, which is perhaps why it lingers the way it does. There was no ending. No confession. No rejection. Just a feeling I held privately and carried away with me when life moved forward.

I knew I liked him. I also knew I was afraid. Afraid of being too much. Afraid of not being enough. Insecurity has always been stitched into me so naturally that I sometimes mistake it for personality. So I stayed silent. I chose comfort over courage. And now, years later, I watch from a distance as he builds a life that does not include me. It hurts, especially when the person beside him is someone familiar. But I have no right to resentment. I never gave the story a chance to begin.

When I watched Past Lives, something inside me felt seen. Not because our stories are identical, but because it captured that quiet ache of unfinished possibility. The kind of connection that never fully becomes anything, yet never fully disappears either. The grief of “what if” can be heavier than an actual goodbye.

I sometimes wonder how long I will carry this version of him. Maybe until he gets married. Maybe until I finally fall in love in a way that feels safe and certain. Maybe longer. The thought scares me a little... The idea that a person can live inside your heart rent-free for years without even knowing.

It has affected me, if I am honest. I struggle to open myself to someone new. I hesitate before letting feelings grow. A part of me believes that people eventually leave, so why risk the attachment? I question whether I deserve to be chosen fully, intentionally. I analyze myself: am I avoidant? anxious? Or simply someone who loved quietly and too long?

Still, I cannot regret the feelings. They remind me that I am capable of depth. I have felt happiness, hope, jealousy, grief, tenderness and sometimes all at once. Those emotions shaped me. They softened me. They taught me that my heart, despite its fears, knows how to love.

Perhaps the real sadness is not that I loved him. It is that I never learned how to express it. I have always been told I am not good with words. Maybe that is true. Or maybe I just never felt safe enough to say them out loud.

For now, I sit with the yearning instead of fighting it. It is a quiet companion since it's not as loud as it used to be, but still present. And maybe one day, when I am braver, I will love someone without shrinking. Maybe one day, someone will meet the love I have been carrying all this time.

My life already feels exhausting at times; imagining myself having to be “on” for the whole day makes it even harder. I know I’m already faking parts of myself just to get through things, and I hate that feeling. It makes me wonder if maybe I’m just not enough, if I never will be. Corporate culture feels like a place where people like me quietly disappear, not because we lack ability, but because we don’t know how to be loud, confident, or polished enough.

It’s been a long time since I last dreamed about you. Or maybe I still do, sometimes. It just feels different now.

Last night, you appeared so randomly. We met as if nothing had changed. You were back with your ex-boyfriend, and somehow it all felt easy, familiar, almost nostalgic. We were in a supermarket, talking about food, wondering if we should have hotpot. Then the alarm rang, and the dream dissolved into faint, scattered memories.

Maybe it came from old moments buried somewhere in my mind. Missing people is normal, I think. At least, it feels normal for me. I seem to be a museum of people, always carrying memories of those who once meant something.

Sometimes, though, it feels like a quiet kind of crime to still miss them.

I think this feeling will always live somewhere inside me, until the day I’m no longer here. One day, when time has turned us all to dust, perhaps we’ll meet again in some small, unnoticed way, maybe in a fallen twig, a puddle of water, or a blooming nebula of flowers. And we won’t even realize that we once shared a brief, intense, and beautiful connection.

Today, I felt a lot of pressure from my colleagues. My internship will be starting from April to July 2026, and some of my classmates have already secured their placements. I haven’t. A few of my colleagues texted me, saying they’re scared no one will hire them, and I keep reassuring them every time. But at the same time, I’m scared too. God, I’m scared.

I haven’t received any feedback yet. Some of my friends already have offers, but I don’t. It’s hard to process the idea that I might be competent, yet still not enough. After years of feeling like I was never enough for my own family and friends, how will I ever be enough for someone else?

I don’t want to stay in this house anymore. I want to go out, but I don’t want to be away from my family either. Being here feels suffocating, yet leaving feels wrong. It’s toxic in ways I can’t fully explain.

I don’t want to meet new people. I don’t want to be with my family. I don’t want to be with my colleagues. I just want to be with myself...somewhere far from here, somewhere quiet, somewhere that doesn’t expect anything from me.

How can I function in an institution when I can barely believe in myself? I say it out loud to others, “You’re enough. You’re good enough. Don’t doubt yourself.” But when it’s just me and my thoughts, I doubt everything.

I think I’ve been trying to please people for as long as I can remember. It started at home. Mom. Dad. My siblings. Somewhere along the way, I learned that being needed meant being loved. So I kept giving. And giving. And giving.

When it was just family, it felt normal. Safe, even. But once I started letting more people into my life, everything became heavier. Too many emotions. Too many expectations. Too many feelings to carry that were never mine to begin with. I feel like something inside me overflowed, and I never learned how to close the gate.

I know I’m not responsible for everyone. I tell myself that all the time. But my heart doesn’t care about logic. Every time I see someone left out, ignored, or hurting, something in me aches. I don’t want anyone to feel unwanted. I don’t want anyone to feel invisible. So I step in. I include. I listen. I love, and sometimes more than I should.

There’s a strange comfort in it. Making people feel seen makes me feel like I matter. But it’s also exhausting. I’m tired in a way sleep can’t fix. And no matter how much I give, it never feels enough. People still see your flaws. They still misunderstand you. They still hurt you, sometimes without even realizing it.

I get frustrated with humans. With how careless we can be. How selfish. How easily we let our emotions control us. We react, we lash out, we disappear and only later do we realize the damage we’ve done. And yet, I can’t fully blame anyone. Because I’m human too. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people. I’ve acted out of emotion and regretted it later.

Everyone is shaped by different wounds. Different homes. Different beliefs. I know now that I can’t meet everyone’s needs. I’ve tried, and I still fail. And that hurts because failing at loving people feels worse than failing at anything else.

Humans are beautiful, but they can be unbearably cruel. And still, I can’t stop myself from caring. Even when I’m drained. Even when I’m angry. Even when I wish I could be colder, more distant, less affected.

I hate getting hurt, but my heart still feels everything. So I smile. I pretend I’m okay. I keep choosing positivity because I don’t know what else to choose.

They’re all I have. And one day, they’ll leave too.

Sometimes....no, most of the time. I’m too sensitive. I wish I wasn’t. I really, really wish I wasn’t. Being this way feels like a weakness.

I feel alone. Even in my own house. Even surrounded by people.

I never say any of this out loud. I just carry it quietly, especially when I start feeling off in the middle of a hangout. I smile, I nod, I stay but inside, I already know I don’t belong. I feel like an alien, and honestly, maybe I am. Even with my own family, I feel misplaced, like I was built wrong somehow.

I see things differently, and instead of that being meaningful, it just makes me weird. Uncomfortable. Hard to like. I wish I were normal. I wish I were pretty. I hate this grumpy face I carry, this face that makes people assume I’m arrogant before I even speak. I hate that my appearance speaks louder than my intentions. I hate that people only see what I inherited features passed down from people who never knew I would exist while missing the part of me that actually tries.