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thank you ššš

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Dear Me,
Enough.
Sincerely,
Me.
I think what hurts
isnāt that heās with her.
Itās that my mind keeps inventing scenes
I was never invited into.
Not because I wanted them desperately,
but because I wanted them carefully.
I wanted slowness.
Tenderness.
A beginning that didnāt feel like a transaction.
And somehow that became
the thing I lost.
So now my brain punishes me with comparisons
what she gets, what I never touched,
what stayed imaginary long enough
to feel sacred.
But the truth is uglier and simpler:
Nothing was stolen from me.
Nothing was owed.
A door just didnāt open.
And I keep standing in front of it,
imagining rooms that were never mine
Again. I saw this post on Instagram, poets pouring their feelings into comment sections, leaving their hearts under pictures of couples watching sunsets.
I wanted to write. I craved writing. But then I got scared.
Scared of you reading it. Scared that this feeling, this quiet battle Iām carrying, would become public, not to everyone, but to you.
That you would recognize yourself in it.
I canāt risk that. So here I am, sharing these words under anonymity.
I dream of us sometimes, sitting again, watching the sun disappear, not at the cliff, but under a tree, hiding from the world and our fears.
Itās not love that makes the moment heavy, itās the future that has already said no.
Then everything goes dark.
Some loves are not meant to start, only to be dreamed, soft and apart.
How strange, how absurd, how funny ... me, hiding my naked letters beneath poetry posts scattered across platforms, masked by unknown profiles, sealed with encrypted pseudonyms
and still, look at me scrolling for his echoes, hunting his replies, his lines, asking if they reached him, if his eyes ever touched them
what is he thinking? what will he say?
will he recognize himself inside these syllables? will he feel himself in these vowels, recognize the outline of his name? did any syllable bruise him the way his absence bruises me? will he recognize me the pulse behind the words, behind the feelings? will he feel me the hand that shakes behind each sentence, the heart spelling him again and again like prayer?
how funny, funny like a laugh that tastes of salt, how funny, how helplessly, foolishly funny...

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The day i stopped looking in mirrors
A small habit, a whole life unravelingā¦
I once spent a whole day with him. He sat facing me, scanning my face like he was reading a book, and then he smiled. āYouāre really different,ā he said, smirking like heād uncovered a secret.
āWhat? How?ā I asked.
āLike⦠really different. Not like the others.ā
āWhat do you mean?ā
āWe literally spent the entire day together, and you didnāt check your reflection once. Not in a mirror, not in your phone screen, not in a shop window, nothing.ā
āReally? I didnāt even notice.ā
āIs it because youāre with me, or is that a you-thing?ā
āI donāt know. Iāve never noticed it in myself. But I can give you credit for todayā, you kept me busy with your drama and sarcasm,ā I said, trying to flirt, trying to turn it into something playful. Ā I took it as a complimentā, or at least thatās what I thought, what I felt in that moment.
That was the first time anyone ever pointed it out. And it stuck.
Because I used to check. All the time. Ā Every mirror, every dark car window, every reflection in passing glass. Ā I used to feel good, or at least try to. Adjusting hair, fixing a collar, smoothing lipstick, anything to keep the illusion alive.
āItās because Iām more confident now,ā I told myself. Ā Lie.
I hid the truth behind that lie. Ā āI donāt need to check. Iām beautiful as I am. I love myself no matter how I look.ā Ā Another lie. And I knew it.
That old version of meā, āthe girl who overflowed with life and small joysā, she adored her reflection. She loved to catch herself in mirrors, to say silently, this is me, Iām proud of this. She couldnāt stop looking, because she liked who she saw.
Not anymore. Ā Now I avoid mirrors because they show me everything I donāt want to see: Ā the sadness stamped into my face, Ā the pale skin, Ā the hooded eyes with dark bruises underneath, Ā the thin body, the dry skin creased before its time.
Those eyes. Ā Those eyes that used to shine now just accuse me, whispering failure!
I donāt love myself. Not my appearance, not my situation, not my life. Ā Iāve triedā, ānew clothes, makeup, filters, perfect lightingā, ānothing worked. Ā I donāt like the girl in the pictures either.
So, slowly, I found relief in neglect. Ā I stopped checking. Ā Stopped taking photos. Ā Stopped trying to fix what felt unfixable.
āConfidence?ā No. Ā It was about self-love since day one. Ā And now? Ā Another lie to hide behind: Ā āIām too old for this detail. Too busy for makeup. Just comfy clothes, nothing more.ā
How pitiful. Ā One tiny habit can reveal an entire life unraveling.
What looks like self-love can also be hiding self-lossā¦
Thatās sad. Ā And Iām sad.
He was here !
i didnāt touch him.
i donāt know what to say. he was here. sitting next to me. breathing the same air. but i froze.
he mentioned the lemon cheesecake. i forgot how to swallow. did he read my letters? the ones i never meant for eyes? no, i donāt think so. i hope not. god, i hope not.
he called himself the husband-to-be. he said it like a joke. i felt it like a knife.
because itās all i ever wanted. him. but i stood there. no hug. no kiss. not even the safety of a casual touch.
and the truth? i wanted to kiss him until my lips split and my lungs gave up. i wanted to bury every ache into his collarbone and pretend the world outside didnāt exist.
but i did nothing. i couldnāt.
because itās safer this way. for me.
i told him i didnāt want anything. no relationship. especially not with him. especially not him.
because with someone else, i can brace for betrayal. i wonāt crack, because iāll never hand them the softest pieces of me.
but with him⦠with my lemonsunset⦠if he ever lied, if he ever left, iād never recover. iād lose everything... the dream, the softness, the version of him i loved without needing him to earn it.
and once that version dies, no one else will ever stand a chance again.
so itās better this way. to break my own heart before he ever gets the chance.
and now I miss him so much!
Sour and Sweet, Just Like Us
Itās sad.
I should have known from day one.
We both loved lemon cheesecake; sour and sweet, baby. Just like us.
Itās sad because when I was with you, all I could think about was him. And now, all I think about is you.
I lost you, my LemonSunset. You were so precious. I loved you without even realizing it. I had no idea how much you meant to me.
All those feelings I felt beside you, the way I laughed, the way I breathed, the way I existed. The version of me next to you... I loved that girl.
She was full of life. Yet empty in so many ways.
You used to say my life was full of drama. Unlike yours. I felt ashamed then, as if I were burdening you with my chaos.
āUse me,ā you said.
I couldnāt. Not because I didnāt want to. But because I felt small. Weak. Undeserving. Like I was nothing. Like I didnāt deserve anything. Especially not your love.
Yet, it was all I needed.
But I knew, baby. I knew youād leave too. I saw it coming. The same story, playing out again.
And I couldnāt bear it. Not again. Not from you.
Because if I lost you the way I lost him, it wouldnāt just break me. It would shatter whatever was left. An empty soul trapped in a shell, a withered body longing for what once was. With no life left to give.