When Midnight Strikes...

I opened my notes app earlier to start cleaning house — deleting stuff I’ve been carrying since 2012. And then I ran into it. A message I wrote right before the breakup. I was up north, telling him how we were constantly fighting. Reading it back… it hit me harder than I expected.

I got so emotional. Not because I miss the relationship, but because I barely recognized the person I was back then. I had so much hope. So much love. I was broken, anxious, and still pouring everything I had into someone who kept hurting me. Putting myself back in that headspace for even a second gave me full flashbacks. All the feelings rushed in at once. It was weirdly intense.

And of course, I’ve been watching Young Royals at the same time — all that young, messy, desperate love — so the combination of the show and stumbling on that old note just… made a mess of me for a minute.

This isn’t me romanticizing the past or saying I want it back. Not at all. It’s just the first time in a while I’ve actually faced it head-on. Looking at where I was — scared, hopeful, exhausted — and where I am now. I’ve come a long way. I’m not that version of me anymore, and I’m really proud of that.

Healing isn’t linear, I guess. Sometimes you’re deleting old notes and end up deleting old versions of yourself too. One messy, teary evening at a time.

But I also know I’m only fooling myself. I’m in a really good place right now. I’m organizing my life, putting my pieces back together, and protecting my peace like it’s my full-time job. I’m not ready to let anyone in yet, and that’s okay. For my mental health and my safe space, I need to keep focusing on me.

Like Taylor said, “I’m picking up the pieces of the mess you made.” That line lives in my head rent-free. It’s going to be my next tattoo, somewhere on my thigh. A permanent reminder that I’m rebuilding, stronger and wiser.

It’s been a minute since I posted on here. I missed this — just writing, letting things out, being honest. So here I am, back again.

I’m doing good, truly. Working on myself, living my life. I just got back from a much-needed trip with my mom and uncle — Dublin, London, and Rome. It was healing in ways I didn’t even expect. Being in London again felt like coming home. That city… it’s my happy place, my healing place. I was genuinely so at peace there. I already want to go back, this time alone, and just be.

We’re already at the end of March 2026 and my birthday is creeping up next week — I’ll be 35.

Thirty-five.

Honestly? It just feels like a number now. Inside I still feel like the same guy who’s learning, growing, messing up, and maturing all at the same time. I don’t feel “old” — I feel… in progress.

The last two or three years have been heavy. Really heavy. There were months where I felt like I completely lost myself. Like I was wandering around in my own life asking, “Where did I go?” (Taylor’s “All Too Well” hit different during that time, not gonna lie).

I really thought I might never find that version of me again.

But time kept moving, and I kept showing up for myself — even on the days it felt pointless. I started enjoying my own company. I got comfortable with the quiet. I accepted that maybe the person I was looking for… might not show up. And that’s okay. Because instead, I found a better version of myself. A softer one. A stronger one. One who doesn’t abandon himself anymore.

It feels so good to finally put my own needs first without guilt. I spent so long pushing my feelings down, swallowing my emotions, making sure everyone else was okay while I quietly fell apart. I’m not doing that anymore.

Of course I still have my weeks where I’m moody, bitchy, and a little too sassy for my own good 😂 Then I catch myself and think “bro… tone it back.” But even that feels like me now. The real me.

I’m working on losing weight (health has been kicking my ass lately, but I’m still showing up). Slowly shedding the pounds, the depression, the old hurt I’ve been carrying around like dead weight. It’s not linear, but it’s happening.

As 35 gets here next week, I don’t know what life is going to throw at me next… but for the first time in a long time, I’m actually excited to find out.

I’m happy.

I’m content.

With myself. With where I’m at. With my family. With the people I have in my life.

I never thought I’d be able to say that and actually mean it… but I can.

And that feels like the biggest plot twist of all.

the first of the month and my chest is already doing that fluttery thing. by the end of march i turn 35 and i’m finally going back to my favorite place on earth — london. my birthday gift to myself and my mom (who’s never been) all wrapped into one.

i hate that i still do this, but the second i booked the trip my brain went straight to the last time i was there. every memory with my ex was golden — laughing in the rain, getting lost in the tube, stealing kisses on the south bank. i’ll keep those forever, no bitterness, just soft gratitude. but this time? this time it’s different. this time it’s me and mom making brand new ones, and i’m already crying just typing that.

the very first thing i knew i had to do — rain or shine — is plant myself in hyde park with my laptop or ipad and just… write. the idea hit me instantly when i found out we were going. something about sitting on that grass, watching the swans, letting the city wrap around me again… it feels like the deepest exhale i’ve needed for years. healing in real time.

(obviously i’m also filming a tiktok to “so long london” the second i land. full circle, taylor, you get me.)

35 feels like the start of the prettiest chapter yet. i’m walking into it with open hands — welcoming whatever God has planned. more love, more health, more adventures, more london rain on my face.

new memories only from here.

then out of nowhere she looks at me, smiles really gently, and goes “you have a pure soul.”

and i just. froze. like my brain short-circuited. i mumbled a thank you and probably laughed nervously because what do you even say to that?? but it hit me right in the chest. hard. i walked out to my car feeling like someone had cracked open my ribcage and seen something soft and untouched in there that i didn’t even know was still there.

got home and immediately texted my best friend the whole thing, half expecting her to laugh or say she was just being nice. but no. she hits me with:

“it’s true though. you do have a pure soul. you have the kindest heart. you always find the greener side of things, stay positive even when shit’s heavy, and you don’t let the bad stuff stick to you. you really are like that.”

and that’s when the dam broke. full ugly cry in my kitchen. just sobbing because sometimes you don’t realize how much you needed to hear that someone sees the good in you until a random trader joe’s cashier and your bestie remind you at the same time.

Friends break up, friends get married Strangers get born, friends get buried Trends change, rumors fly through new skies But I'm not the one you left behind, if I'm not mistaken I'm right where you left me

(okay, not quite—because 2025? that was my frozen-in-time era. stuck at that damn table, watching the world spin while i nursed the same heartbreak like it was yesterday's coffee. but january 2026? honey, i've pushed my chair back. dusted off my coat. and i'm leaving. time doesn't just heal; it hands you the keys and says "drive.")

if you know, you know: last year felt like an evermore loop on repeat—dusty and dim, all sharp edges and what-ifs. but this year? i'm hopeful in a way that feels reckless. like, the kind of hope that packs a suitcase and books a flight without a second thought. speaking of... LONDON, BABY. my favorite corner of the earth, the one that wraps around me like a well-worn scarf. there's something about those cobblestone streets, the fog-kissed bridges, the way the rain taps "welcome home" on the pub windows. the architecture that whispers stories older than my regrets, the culture that hums with that perfect chaos—vibrant markets, hidden bookshops, accents that could charm the stars down. even the weather, all moody and mercurial, mirrors my soul on its best days. it doesn't just feel like home; it is the version of me i forgot i could be.

and oh, the plans. i'm manifesting a "so long, london" edit already—tay's bridge blasting over blurry tube rides, big ben at golden hour, me spinning in hyde park like no one's watching (but we all are). it's my love letter to reinvention: goodbye to the boy who stayed seated, hello to the one who chases sunsets across the thames.

word vomit over (for now), but if you're reading this mid-scroll at 3pm on a thursday, take it from someone who's finally exhaled: the table's just a table. the world's waiting.

I just found out that your family thinks I abandoned you.

After everything that happened between us… please, tell me exactly where I abandoned you.

When you left for treatment, I was there. Every single time you asked for something—clothes, puzzles, books, snacks, whatever you needed—I showed up. I made sure you had it.

Every two weeks, like clockwork, those phone calls. Because you asked, and I cared.

When you came back, almost every weekend was ours. We went places, we spent time together, we built memories—even though we were already broken up. I was still there. Fully.

And somehow… that’s abandonment?

If that’s the story you’ve been telling your family, if that’s the version you want everyone to believe, then fine. Let them think it. Paint me as the villain if it helps you sleep at night.

But the truth? The truth is I probably should have walked away sooner. I should have abandoned you the moment it started hurting me more than it helped you.

The only time I actually stopped showing up—the only time I went quiet—was when I finally realized I had to put myself first. When you made it clear you just wanted to be friends, and I knew staying that close would destroy what was left of me.

That wasn’t abandonment.

That was survival.

i really do. i hope you’re sleeping peacefully while i’m stuck in this loop of staring at the ceiling at 4 a.m., wondering why i still can’t find the energy to get out of bed most days. you broke me so thoroughly that motivation feels like a foreign language. some days i’ll get a tiny spark (“okay, today i’ll eat better, i’ll move, i’ll try”) and then it just… dies. i just want to sleep forever. sometimes i ask myself why i even bother trying anymore.

i hope you’re proud. you wanted to shatter someone so badly that you spread your version of the story, painted yourself innocent, let your tongue do the work while i stayed quiet. i still can’t bring myself to drag your name online, even though you never hesitated to drag mine. what would i even gain? likes? pity? another round of people choosing your charming lies over my messy truth?

so i stay silent and pick up the pieces alone. i’m trying to glue myself back together, but half the shards are still cutting me. hope flickers, then gutters out. some nights it feels like hope is dead and this is just… loss. permanent loss.

There's a heaviness in my chest tonight, a quiet sadness I can’t quite pin down. It’s like my heart’s holding onto something I don’t fully understand, a tangle of emotions that bubble up without warning. I’m watching Heartstopper, and the soft moments of connection hit me hard—those fleeting glimpses of love and vulnerability make me ache. Same with The Summer I Turned Pretty or anything about relationships, really. They stir something deep, a longing I don’t always admit to myself. I miss having someone to pour my heart out to, someone who gets it without me having to explain. But at the same time, I love the freedom of being alone, the space to just be without answering to anyone.

Right now, though, the sadness is louder. I’m sitting here, Billie Eilish’s voice weaving through the room, her lyrics tugging at something raw. I want to cry—really cry, let it all spill out—but I don’t know why. It’s not one thing, not one moment I can point to. It’s like a wave that keeps building, and I’m scared to let it crash because my mom might hear, might ask what’s wrong, and I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Some days, I’m buzzing with motivation, ready to take on the world. Others, like today, I’m just… stuck, caught in this strange mix of happy and unhappy, like I’m living in two places at once.

Today, I got a new phone. New beginnings, they say. And with that, I finally found the strength to let those albums go. I deleted them. It wasn’t easy, and as my finger hovered over the button, I felt something—nothing overwhelming, just a quiet ache, a subtle shift. I won’t say it hit me hard, but it was there, a moment of recognition that I was truly letting you go.

Every song is a dagger. A soft melody on the radio, a fleeting lyric about love lost or hearts broken, and I’m there again—his voice in my ear, his laughter echoing in my bones. The smell of rain, a stranger’s cologne, the way the light hits a coffee shop window—it’s all a time machine, dragging me back to moments I thought I’d buried. I see his face in the chords of a sad ballad, feel his touch in the ache of a sunset’s glow. Taylor Swift sings about a love that burned too bright, and I’m choking on tears, remembering how I poured my soul into him, only to be left behind like a forgotten page in his story. He erased me so effortlessly, like I was nothing more than a fleeting thought, while I’m still here, scrubbing at the stains he left on my heart, begging for the memories to fade.

During the day, I’m a warrior, piecing myself together, healing, living—keeping you tucked away in some quiet corner of my heart. I laugh, I work, I breathe, convincing myself I’m moving forward. But when night falls, and the world quiets, it’s like a switch flips. Midnight strikes, and boom—there you are, flooding my mind like you never left.