Just wandering

Here I am, at 2AM, my mind restless but somehow at peace. I’ve had Pahina on loop, and for reasons I can’t fully explain, its tragic meaning has been comforting me tonight. Not because I’m thinking of past lovers—but because I’m thinking of past versions of myself.

They reel into me like memories turned into mirrors, reality slapping me awake. I see all those phases of me that I let down, the choices I could have made better, the paths I could have walked straighter. But then I realize—without those moments, I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t even have the kind of reflections I’m having now.

I did my dirt. I also got hurt. I chose, and people never knew the weight of what I had to choose from. I walked the path, took the turn, hit the bump. No one wondered. No one checked. And now, I’ve never felt so alone trying to get up from all these pieces.

But I don’t blame them. Just like I was there when they needed me, and they weren’t when I needed them—it was still my choice. Always mine. No one forced me. I obliged myself. It was all me, after all.

And maybe that’s the ache this song brings out. Like remembering a heartbreak, only this time it’s a heartbreak for myself—for the versions of me that I lost along the way.

For months now, I’ve been running on survival mode without even realizing it. Every day I wake up like I’m in a rush, like something’s chasing me—and it started to feel normal. I thought it was just me doing what I’ve always done: wake up, get things done, repeat. But lately it hit me—I haven’t really been living.

I have the freedom to choose what I do, eat what I want, laze away if I feel like it. But instead of freedom, it feels like routine. Wake, errands, rest, work. And repeat. Even my “breaks” feel rushed, and weekends? They’ve become a checklist of “what to enjoy” and “where to go” like happiness has to be scheduled.

Today, I’m sitting in my study with a cup of coffee gone cold, watching the city skyline from the 15th floor, hearing the noise of traffic and weekenders below. And even in this quiet moment, my mind still races with things that need to get done. I feel awful for it—for turning life into auto-pilot, for mistaking comfort for peace.

Friends keep telling me: it’s time to stop, to take things in luxury, to stop being so available. To just do what actually needs to be done, and stop feeling guilty for things outside my control. Because honestly, I’m not saving lives here. Nobody dies if I make a mistake.

But still, it’s hard to shake off the guilt. Maybe this is just me ranting again—words I can’t say out loud, spilling into letters instead. Pent-up, unspoken, messy.

Survival mode is a strange thing—it tricks you into believing you’re living, when really, you’re just running.

So I just woke up and realized… last night, exactly a year ago, I met this cute Korean guy in a bar. We talked for hours, and I really enjoyed his company.

Fast forward to exactly a year later—same date, August 10th—and I find myself shaking hands and saying goodbye to another cute guy I’d been traveling with.

(Both straight, of course, because apparently the universe enjoys a little cruel irony.)

Because some people stay in your head longer than they stay in your life.

It’s just me or do I have this special talent of being attracted to guys who are either (a) straight or (b) gay but in the “let’s just be friends” category? At this point I’m starting to think the universe is gently nudging me towards being that mysterious, well-dressed loner with a plant collection. Lol.

Anyway… there was this really cute guy. I’m pretty sure I’m older than him, but whatever. We were in the same van on a group trip. Didn’t talk the first day (classic me) but the next day I decided to break the ice. Turns out he’s a finance analyst and business strategist. He speaks well, thinks sharply — and you can tell his family is well off just by the way he carries himself.

Silent Thunder I bite my tongue so your crown won’t tilt, carry the storm you throw in a jar behind my ribs.

I smile like nothing broke, while my bones rattle with words I’ll never speak.

There I was—still hopeful from his last message. I wasn’t sure if he’d show, but I also wasn’t holding my breath. So I slipped into my swim shorts, threw on that loose white shirt I’ve grown to love, and made my way to the beach. One last dip before I leave this place.

The waves matched the rhythm of my body—exhausted from both walking and waiting—but the sea, as always, felt like home. It made me think that maybe, in my current state of life, I could afford to return. Even if it means clocking in for just one night of work and spending the rest of the weekend by the coast. Next time, I’ll take the smart bus. Save on the cab. Learn, finally.

I got back to my place and lingered, and then—he arrived.

Drenched from walking. His accommodation wouldn’t let him stay longer, his flight not until 10 PM. I offered him space, no expectations—just hang out, just wait it out.

He moved around the room before settling on the bed, easing into it. He closed his eyes in patches of sleep while I adjusted the AC so he wouldn't shiver. I leaned back on the headboard, a book in hand, one I was surprisingly enjoying, one I might even finish.

Then came a moment.

He pulled the covers over, I invited him to rest properly. And in time, I slipped in beside him. His arm folded around me. Jazz played low in the background—slowing everything down, making room for the softness that followed.

We kissed—gently, then hungrily. Touched in fleeting pulses. Skimmed past the more obvious places, but our warmth met where it needed to. It wasn’t just lust, not quite love. Something between. Something briefly beautiful.

In those hours, I felt wanted.

And I went home that afternoon, after a walk by the coast once more. I bid him goodbye. My bed still crumpled from what it had witnessed just hours before. I stepped into the shower, let it wash over me, but even then—I still smelled him. Still felt the echo of his lips. The memory of my arms around him. A head resting softly on my chest.

And though I know what this was—an affair at best, a secret I’ll bury for myself—it lit a small flame in me. I bloomed in his arms. My pale lips flushed with color again. There was melody in my chest, not just a beat.