Paradox Of Words

Something shifts in a relationship.

Where once calls seemed endless, jokes were filled with love, arguments were silly, and meeting each other felt like a daily routine.

That person becomes your first and last thought, and usually, it's a happy one.

Maybe it's because everything is new, so it all feels exciting and refreshing. It's the stage where two people meet and are trying to learn about one another. During that time, even the biggest issues seem small.

But as time goes by, and the more time you spend together, more flaws begin to show. People become more aware of their own wants and needs, and they realize that their ideas don't always align.

But there's beauty in that.

It reminds us that, at the end of the day, we are only human. We were never meant to be perfect rather, we were meant to be flawed. And it's those flaws that help us grow, not only as individuals but also alongside each other.

There is nothing wrong with wanting things our own way, but compromise is just as important if a relationship is going to survive.

Suffocation is what this house feels like.

Yes, I have a roof over my head. All my things are placed exactly where I want them to be. I eat whatever I want, and I do whatever I want. But still, this is not my home.

The living room doesn't feel like comfort anymore. The house no longer smells like home-cooked meals. The walls have changed color, and the couch where my mother used to sip her hot tea has disappeared into thin air.

My room has lost its colors. Now it looks dull, as if someone drained the colors from my life.

It's living proof that my childhood is gone, just like that.

This house is not a home.

It's nothing like I imagined my life would turn out to be.

Every time I walk into this house, I feel like a foreigner who isn't welcome.

Where there was once so much noise that no one could hear their own voice, there is now only silence.....dead silence.

There is no happiness left, just two strangers known as father and daughter. But it hasn't felt like that since I turned thirteen.

Sometimes I wonder if my hatred toward the idea of family is genuine hate, or if it's simply the fear that every family will end up the way mine did.

Yes, I have a place called home, but not the feeling of one. Not the safety. Not the security.

And as the days go by, I don't think I can keep pretending that I like coming back here.

If being alone is all it takes to live happily, then I'm okay with that.

Because at least one day, I can make even a small room feel like home.

A place where I don't have to pretend.

A happy relationship is not just about happy moments. It’s not just date nights, long night drives, staying on calls for hours talking nonsense, spending nights together, or having deep conversations.

It’s also about arguments, misunderstandings, fights, and getting irritated with each other but never leaving each other.

Not all happy moments show that a relationship is healthy the difficult moments show how deeply two people care for each other.

They fight, they argue, they get angry, and sometimes say hurtful words, but at the end of the day, they still show up for each other.

It’s not toxic to argue, because it simply shows that they are human. Just two people growing together and finding ways to build a life as one.

Growing up, I was that type of child who would be called a spoiled brat the one who got everything she wanted whenever she felt like it. Maybe my parents told me the truth when they said I was literally the princess of the house.

My friends would always tell me, “Oh wow, you're lucky you got that,” or they would always compliment my new dress while they wore old ones. I never realized that I was actually brought up in a privileged household… until I lost it all.

One mistake made my entire family fall apart, and now my dad can barely pay the house rent. I am still grateful that I am doing what I wanted to do, but at what cost?

I barely have money to get through my day. I can’t go out like my other friends do, and I am so scared to ask my dad for anything because it’s embarrassing when people around me hear that my dad doesn’t have money.

I skip meals to save money. I don’t get new clothes or eat my favorite food because I literally don’t have anything to give.

It feels really shitty when all your friends do whatever they want without asking or thinking twice, and I always have to come up with an excuse because I don’t have anything to give.

I feel alone, lost, and so fucking confused. I feel guilty when I ask for new things. I feel shitty when I eat good food. I feel pathetic when I ask for something I desire.

I realized something today. Maybe the part of me that gives comes from my mom. All my life, I have seen this woman give to other people without asking anything in return.

And when they say they are happy or show signs of happiness, her face lights up, like that’s the reward she gets for being a giver.

It reminds me of the time when my mom used to learn how to cook new things just because I asked her to make them for me. Even though she failed, she never gave up. She tried again and again just to make sure I had it. And once she saw how happy I was, she smiled and that smile was one of the most genuine ones I have ever seen.

It’s like all she has worked hard for in her life is to see her daughter smile. And I keep that part of me safe.

I ended up growing into a giver, just like my mom finding happiness in other people’s happiness, or being a reason for them to have a reason to smile.

Today, for the very first time, I felt a fear.

The fear of what it feels like to lose someone you’ve spent such a long time loving.

All the days and nights you spent convincing yourself that this one is worth it and it won’t end up like the last .

How much effort and willpower it takes to move forward in life by allowing yourself to accept loss, just to feel it again.

At that moment, you just feel numb, like the whole world just stopped. Your ears start ringing, your stomach drops, and your heart feels like it’s about to jump out of your chest. Your body starts to shake in fear and anxiety.

In my head, words like: why is this happening again? Why did I mess up again? Is it me or something I did? Did I do something wrong? Did I say something wrong?

Sometimes, when I look at these scars fading, I wonder,

 what if I do it again?

 What if I bleed again?

How would it make me feel

would it make me feel better?

Would it make the world feel less pathetic?

Would it make me feel alive? And then I think about all those faces when I tell them I relapsed.

What would happen?

Would they comfort me?

Would they leave me?

People say that once bad things happen, sometime later, you’ll find yourself living a life you never imagined you could.

Just like love the old one destroys you, hurts you to the point where you think you can’t recover.But once you accept the pain, the same love you once gave to someone will come back to you.

When I was young, I used to hate closed rooms. I was afraid of being surrounded by four walls with just myself inside. I believed that if I stayed in a closed room, something foreign would come and attack me, kill me from the inside, and no one would ever know. I always kept my door open, comforted by the thought that there was someone outside, waiting for me.

But as I grew older, those four walls became my home. They felt like they protected me from whatever was waiting outside. A closed door began to mean safety. The very place I once feared became the place where I could finally be myself, unafraid.