A Penny For His Thoughts

April 24th, 2026

“I recognized you in every lifetime I didn’t live yet.”

— Unknown

She once asked me if I thought we would still have something

if we ever fully moved on from each other.

And I said no—

but not because I don’t feel it.

I said it because I was thinking practically in that moment,

not emotionally.

Emotionally,

I don’t really know how to imagine us as something fully separate.

Because what I feel with her doesn’t sit on the surface.

It goes deeper than that.

She once told me about IFS in therapy—

Internal Family Systems—

the idea that we all carry different parts inside us.

And that sometimes people don’t just meet you in your life…

they reach those deeper parts.

The ones that feel like recognition.

Like familiarity you can’t explain.

And I think that’s what she is for me.

Not just someone I loved.

But someone who felt like recognition itself.

Like something in me responded to something in her

that I didn’t even know was waiting to be awakened.

That’s why I understand why people say “twin flame.”

Not as something magical or perfect—

but as a connection that feels like it runs underneath everything else.

Like it doesn’t depend on proximity.

Or timing.

Or circumstance.

It just… exists.

And I feel that with her.

Even when things are unclear.

Even when life moves forward.

There’s something in me that still recognizes her.

And I think part of me always will.

Not as something that traps me—

but as something that shaped me.

Something that stays with me

even as I keep growing.

My love for her doesn’t feel small.

Or temporary.

It feels like something that changed the structure of how I love at all.

And right now, that’s just what’s true for me.

— Troy

April 5th, 2026

When it hits—

my chest tight,

my body wanting to stay still—

I get up.

Because staying makes it heavier.

So I walk.

And she goes with me.

Not in the streets, not in the air,

but inside me,

in every step I take.

Sometimes I cry.

Not because I’m breaking,

but because I’m letting it out

instead of holding it in.

I miss her.

I feel her in my chest,

in the silence,

in every piece of me that remembers.

But I don’t stay stuck anymore.

I feel it—

and I move.

April 4th, 2026 at 9:16PM

I started my walk and something in me broke open.

No warning.

Just tears.

The kind you don’t plan.

The kind your body holds

until it finally feels safe enough

to let go.

I didn’t try to stop it.

I just kept walking.

Step by step,

breathing through it,

letting everything I had been holding

fall away.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe it was everything.

The memories.

The changes.

The weight of becoming someone new

while still carrying pieces of who I used to be.

But I didn’t collapse.

I didn’t run.

I felt it—

and I kept going.

And somewhere along the way,

it got lighter.

Not gone.

But lighter.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like.

Not forgetting.

Not avoiding.

Just learning how to carry it

without letting it stop you.

April 3rd, 2026 às 12:18PM

Às vezes, conhecer alguém por muito tempo… não significa conhecer profundamente.

A gente acha que sabe como a pessoa é, até que percebe camadas que jamais imaginaria.

E então chegam notícias devastadoras.

E, estranhamente, você não fica surpreso.

Porque, olhando de perto, as peças finalmente se encaixam.

Não é sobre raiva.

Não é sobre julgamento.

É sobre reconhecer a realidade e decidir onde você coloca sua energia.

Escolher sua paz.

Escolher sua integridade.

Escolher a si mesmo, mesmo quando dói desapegar de quem já foi parte da sua história.

April 2nd, 2026

I’m graduating this June.

A bachelor’s degree—

something I once wasn’t even sure I could achieve.

There was a time

I doubted myself more than I believed in anything.

A time where this didn’t feel possible.

But here I am.

And now, I’m holding an acceptance letter

for a Master’s in Financial Planning at the University of Georgia.

What?

Sometimes I have to pause and really take that in.

Because the truth is—

nothing external really changed overnight.

I did.

My mindset.

My discipline.

The way I chose to show up for my own life.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson in all of this:

the limits I believed in

were never real.

They were just perspectives

I hadn’t outgrown yet.

Because the moment you start believing

that something is possible—

you move differently.

You build differently.

You become someone who gets there.

And suddenly,

the life you once questioned

starts becoming the life you’re living.

The sky was never the limit.

I was.

April 1st, 2026 at 10PM

Today marks seven years since I started at Wells Fargo.

Back then, I didn’t fully know who I was.

I just showed up.

Somewhere along the way, showing up became discipline.

Discipline became stability.

And stability started to feel like a life—my life.

I built something real.

Not perfect.

Not final.

But real.

And now I’m in a different place—

not starting,

not finished,

just… aware.

Aware that I’m no longer becoming by accident.

I’m choosing what comes next.

And it feels different.

Quieter.

More intentional.

Because the truth is, these seven years didn’t just pass.

They shaped me into someone

capable of building something bigger, someone who can hold his own, dream bigger, and still move forward.

This moment isn’t an ending.

It isn’t just a milestone.

It’s a quiet checkpoint that says:

you’ve grown.

You’re ready.

“We all die.

The goal isn’t to live forever.

The goal is to create something that will.”

— About Time (2013)

March 31st, 2026

I loved the way you kept the balcony door open

just to smell the rain,

to hear it fall like it belonged to you.

I loved how your fingers moved

when you got excited—

like when I promised to watch

one of your Studio Ghibli movies with you.

The way you smiled

when I ordered tacos on a Saturday night.

I loved the quiet things too—

cooking together,

getting lost in puzzles,

watching something scary

while we stayed close

on your dad’s old recliner.

I loved the smell of your hair

right after you washed it.

The way you asked my opinion

on everything—

clothes, shoes, furniture—

like my voice had a place

in your world.

I loved the way you read.

And even more,

the way you never judged me

when I read in my own way—

slow, careful, still learning.

I loved when you listened

to my Portuguese songs

and danced

like nothing else mattered.

And maybe that’s what stays with me the most—

not the big moments,

not the beginning or the end,

but all these small, ordinary things

that somehow

meant everything.

March 30th, 2026

You said you miss me.

And I didn’t say it back.

Not because I don’t.

I do.

Every day.

I miss you in the quiet moments,

in the spaces where your presence

used to live so easily.

But I held it in.

Because I could feel

you were already carrying too much.

And I didn’t want my words

to become another weight

on your shoulders.

And maybe…

because I needed to protect

my own heart too.

Because I know what happens

when I let everything out.

When I love without holding back.

So I stayed quiet.

Not empty—just careful.

Not distant—just choosing

not to give more

than the moment could hold.

But the truth is still here,

even if I didn’t say it out loud:

I miss you.

More than I let you see.

Just… not right now.

March 29th, 2026

I think part of me believed in a moment that never came.

The kind where everything becomes clear.

Where fear turns into courage.

Where love becomes a decision.

But the truth is—

I was already that person.

I am the one who chooses beyond the risk.

The one who carries his heart in his hands.

The one who falls, gets up, and tries again.

I would have stayed

for the hope of it all.

But it was draining me.

Because while I was ready to build something steady,

something real,

something that could grow into a home…

she wasn’t there yet.

And part of me is grateful she ended things.

Because I thought we were getting better.

I thought we were getting closer.

I thought we were about to become something solid.

I would have never left her.

But another part of me knows

I was paying the price for things that weren’t mine to carry.

And maybe that’s where this changes.

Because I don’t regret loving like I did.

I don’t regret staying as long as I did.

But now…

it’s time to take care of myself.

To protect the same heart

I was so willing to give away.

March 28th, 2026

I’ve been asking myself why this affects me more than it seems to affect you.

Why I sit with it.

Why I feel it in waves.

Why it lingers.

And I think I’m starting to understand.

I don’t know how to turn things off.

I don’t know how to pretend something didn’t matter.

When I feel, I feel completely.

I revisit moments.

I try to understand what happened, what changed, what it meant.

My mind doesn’t go quiet.

My heart doesn’t either.

And maybe that’s the difference between us.

I process.

You distance.

I sit with the emotion

while you step away from it.

And for a while, it feels unfair.

Because I’m the one carrying the weight.

I’m the one feeling the absence, the confusion, the ache.

But I’m starting to see something beyond that.

Maybe this pain isn’t punishment.

Maybe it’s movement.

Because while I’m here, feeling everything,

I’m also understanding.

Learning.

Changing.

Becoming more aware of what love means to me

and what it should feel like.

And maybe that’s the part that matters most.

Because even if I’m the one who feels more now…

I might also be the one who heals better later.

Not because I’m stronger.

But because I didn’t run from it.

Because I stayed.

Because I felt it.

And because of that,

I’ll know how to choose differently next time.

March 27th, 2026

I’ve been thinking about my biggest weakness.

Not the obvious ones.

Not the ones people point out.

The quiet one.

The kind that looks like love

until it starts to hurt.

I feel deeply.

And sometimes… I give that depth to people

who don’t meet me there.

I don’t just see what is.

I see what could be.

I read between the lines,

hold onto moments,

try to understand what isn’t being said.

And in doing that,

I end up holding on longer than I should.

Believing in potential

instead of patterns.

Because the truth is—

I don’t struggle to love.

I struggle to be selective with it.

I stay when things are unclear.

I try to make sense of silence.

I look for meaning

when I should be looking for consistency.

And that’s where it drains me.

Not loving.

But loving where it isn’t returned the same way.

But I’m starting to understand something.

This isn’t a flaw.

It’s depth without direction.

And maybe growth isn’t about feeling less—

maybe it’s about choosing better.

Choosing people

who don’t make me question where I stand.

Choosing clarity over confusion.

Consistency over intensity.

Because love shouldn’t feel like guessing.

And I don’t want to lose the way I love.

I just want to give it

to someone who can hold it.

— Damon Salvatore

March 22, 2026 at 9:57PM

I’m angry. So angry.

You once told me you feared abandonment, and I promised I would never leave you. Not even when you gave me reasons to doubt. Not even when the world felt heavy. I kept that promise with every piece of me.

And yet… somehow, it is always you who walks away.

It’s confusing. It’s frustrating. It’s heartbreaking. I feel this fire in my chest that is part rage, part sorrow, part longing.

I keep the clothes you brought from your house in a separate drawer to preserve your scent. Even when you are far, part of you is here.

Even in this confusion, part of me still loves you. Still wants to hold you close. That love hasn’t disappeared — it’s just tangled now with grief, frustration, and the ache of longing.

I am learning that love doesn’t always mean being together. Sometimes it means standing in the storm, acknowledging the pain, and trusting that the fire inside me — the fire you sparked — still burns.

Still, I ache. Still, I miss you. Still, I care. And I love you. 100%. Always.

March 15th, 2026.

Meeting you felt like something the universe arranged quietly.

Not loud.

Not forced.

Just two lives crossing at the exact moment they were meant to.

You didn’t just enter my life — you reflected it.

A mirror that showed me who I was when I loved without fear,

when my heart was open,

when imagining a future with someone felt natural and real.

That’s why loving you never felt ordinary.

It felt like fireworks —

sudden, bright, impossible to ignore.

But the strange thing about fireworks is that they don’t have to stay in the sky forever to matter.

Even after the light fades,

something of that fire stays with you.

And that’s how you live in me now.

Not as a loss.

Not as a question.

But as a quiet flame.

Because whether our paths cross again or not,

what I felt with you was real.

Serendipity is rare like that.

Some people walk into your life and leave footprints.

You left a mirror.

And the reflection is still burning inside me —

even on the quiet, rainy days when there are no fireworks in the sky.

March 15th, 2026

I think the hardest part isn’t just losing you.

It’s losing the life I thought we were building.

Because when I loved you, it wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t temporary.

I didn’t just see you — I saw a future opening.

A home.

Quiet mornings together.

A life where loving you felt like the most natural thing in the world.

And now I’m here, learning how to hold two truths at the same time:

that I loved you deeply,

and that you couldn’t hold that love the way I could.

Some days that makes me sad.

Some days it makes me angry.

And some days it just makes me quiet.

But slowly I’m realizing something.

The love I felt was real —

and it didn’t come from you.

It came from me.

From my heart.

From my capacity to believe in something bigger than the moment.

So maybe the story we imagined together isn’t the one that will happen.

But the part of me that dreamed it…

the part of me that loved that deeply…

that part of me is still here.

Still walking.

Still learning.

Still becoming.

And maybe one day

someone will meet me there.

Long ago, in a wide green valley where rivers laughed over stones and pine trees whispered to the wind, there lived a wolf and a bear.

Now, wolves and bears didn’t usually become friends. Wolves were wanderers. Always moving, always exploring forest trails, always curious about what lay beyond the next hill.

Bears, on the other paw, liked slower things. Warm sunlight. Cool rivers. Long naps. Berries that stained their noses purple.

But one summer, on a path neither of them normally took, the wolf and the bear met.

The wolf had traveled far that day and was resting near a creek when he heard splashing. When he looked up, there she was — a bear happily playing in the water as if the whole forest belonged to her.

The wolf blinked. The bear blinked.

And then they both laughed, because sometimes the forest brings you surprises that make no sense at all.

From that day on, the wolf would often pass by the creek, and the bear would often happen to be there. They explored trails together, watched sunsets from hilltops, and once spent an entire afternoon trying to catch fish that were clearly smarter than both of them.

The wolf showed the bear new paths through the forest. The bear showed the wolf how peaceful it could be to sit still and watch the river flow.

They were different, yes, but somehow the forest felt bigger and brighter when they were together.

But bears have their seasons.

When the world became too noisy or confusing, the bear would sometimes retreat into her cave to think and rest. She needed quiet to understand her heart.

The wolf understood this, even if he sometimes missed the sound of her splashing in the creek.

So he kept wandering the forest, living his life, howling at the moon now and then — not because he was lonely, but because he believed the forest had its own mysterious timing.

And every so often, when the air felt calm again and the sun shone just right, the bear would emerge from her cave.

And where would she find the wolf?

Somewhere nearby. Still exploring. Still alive with wonder. Still happy to see her.

Sometimes they would run through the valley. Sometimes they would just sit beside the river. And sometimes they would splash in the creek like two very large, very ridiculous animals who had no idea how lucky they were to have found each other in such a big forest.

Because the truth is this:

The forest is enormous. Paths cross and separate all the time. But every now and then, in a place neither expected to be, a wolf and a bear meet. And somehow, against all odds, they keep finding their way back to the same river.