Wandering Soul

Okay …

Enough.

Sincerely,

isn’t that he’s with her.

It’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t open.

And I keep standing in front of it,

I wanted to write. I craved writing. But then I got scared.

Scared of you reading it. Scared that this feeling, this quiet battle I’m carrying, would become public, not to everyone, but to you.

That you would recognize yourself in it.

I can’t 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.

It’s not love that makes the moment heavy, it’s the future that has already said no.

Then everything goes dark.

Why does nobody talk about this?

 This shift.  This crack in the ground.  This silent explosion inside a woman  when she crosses into a new decade.

No ceremony. No warning. Just… fire. Nobody said, “Hey, your body is going to start screaming.” Nobody said, “Hey, your emotions will become a full-time job.” They just smiled and said, “welcome to your thirties.” like it’s a spa day. Is it universal, or is it just me losing my mind quietly?

Suddenly my body is louder than my thoughts. Suddenly my skin has opinions. Suddenly everything is too much and not enough at the same time.

I am restless. I am irritated. I am starving for something I can’t name. And being single? It doesn’t sit in my heart anymore. It sits in my nerves. In my muscles. In my breath.

It is a physical loneliness. A hunger with a pulse. A quiet ache that lives under the skin.

Every day is a battlefield. Mood up. Mood down. Strong. Weak. Soft. Furious. All in the same hour.

I train. I run. I push until my lungs burn. Until my legs shake. Until my body begs me to stop. And still… it’s not quiet. Still… it wants. Still… it asks.

Water on my skin feels louder now. Fabric feels louder. Air feels louder. Everything touches deeper than it used to. Everything lingers. Everything leaves an echo.

I stand in front of the mirror and think: Who the hell are you? When did you become this woman? This mix of power and need, discipline and chaos, control and craving.

I judge her. I doubt her. I am disappointed in her. And yet… I want her. I want her to be seen. Loved. Held. Touched. Desired. Chosen.

I want someone to look at her and not hesitate. To touch her like they mean it. To want her like it’s natural.

How can I be so critical of myself and still want so much for myself?

Is my body asking for love? Is it asking for connection? Is it asking for intimacy? Is it asking to be touched, to be known, to be claimed? Or is it just screaming because time is loud and biology has no manners?

I get dressed like nothing is wrong. I fix my hair. I moisturize. I smile. I pretend.

But inside, something is pacing. Something is leaning forward. Something is waiting.

There is a tension in me. A pull. A gravity.

Even my own movements betray me. I slow down without meaning to. I linger. I take my time. I feel everything. The wind passes and I feel it. The silence breathes and I hear it. My own body exists and I cannot ignore it.

It is beautiful. It is violent. It is exhausting. It is confusing.

And I am standing in the middle of it, trying to be composed, trying to be mature, trying to be calm, while everything inside me is awake.

Wide awake.

What do you do with a body that wants more and a life that hasn’t given it yet? When your soul is patient but your skin is not. When every day feels unfinished and every night feels too long.

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?

A small habit, a whole life unraveling…

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. “You’re really different,” he said, smirking like he’d uncovered a secret.

“What? How?” I asked.

“Like… really different. Not like the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“We literally spent the entire day together, and you didn’t check your reflection once. Not in a mirror, not in your phone screen, not in a shop window, nothing.”

“Really? I didn’t even notice.”

“Is it because you’re with me, or is that a you-thing?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never noticed it in myself. But I can give you credit for today , you kept me busy with your drama and sarcasm,” I said, trying to flirt, trying to turn it into something playful.  I took it as a compliment , or at least that’s 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.  Every mirror, every dark car window, every reflection in passing glass.  I used to feel good, or at least try to. Adjusting hair, fixing a collar, smoothing lipstick, anything to keep the illusion alive.

“It’s because I’m more confident now,” I told myself.  Lie.

I hid the truth behind that lie.  “I don’t need to check. I’m beautiful as I am. I love myself no matter how I look.”  Another lie. And I knew it.

That old version of me ,  the girl who overflowed with life and small joys , she adored her reflection. She loved to catch herself in mirrors, to say silently, this is me, I’m proud of this. She couldn’t stop looking, because she liked who she saw.

Not anymore.  Now I avoid mirrors because they show me everything I don’t want to see:  the sadness stamped into my face,  the pale skin,  the hooded eyes with dark bruises underneath,  the thin body, the dry skin creased before its time.

Those eyes.  Those eyes that used to shine now just accuse me, whispering failure!

I don’t love myself. Not my appearance, not my situation, not my life.  I’ve tried ,  new clothes, makeup, filters, perfect lighting ,  nothing worked.  I don’t like the girl in the pictures either.

So, slowly, I found relief in neglect.  I stopped checking.  Stopped taking photos.  Stopped trying to fix what felt unfixable.

“Confidence?” No.  It was about self-love since day one.  And now?  Another lie to hide behind:  “I’m too old for this detail. Too busy for makeup. Just comfy clothes, nothing more.”

How pitiful.  One tiny habit can reveal an entire life unraveling.

What looks like self-love can also be hiding self-loss…

Here I am again,  walking the same road I walked years ago.

This time I’m painfully present.  So many feelings,  so many things happening at once.

This was the road  where I used to look for him   four times a day,  every day.

Back then, all I wanted was to see him.  Now all I want  is not to.  Not to meet him,  not even to catch a glance.  I don’t want him to see me   especially not like this.

So now I wonder:  is this a beginning?  an ending?  both at once?  or something else entirely?

I feel lost.  I have lost.  This battle was never what I asked for.  It’s painful,  heavy,  deep,  and endless.

I tell myself: run.  Move to another city,  another country,  start over,  forget.

But even that hope  is slipping away.  The privilege to leave everything behind  and rebuild  feels like it’s fading.

I’m stuck.  With all of this.

They say I’m bad.  Tough.  Without sympathy.  Even my family says it.

Few know it’s all because of them.  When I’m nice,  they call me weak.  When I’m not,  they call me bad.

Bad, skinny, hair falling,  no appetite, bad temper,  nails breaking, always sick.

I used to think I was smart   I’m not.  I used to feel beautiful, desired   I’ve lost that spark.

I’ve aged.  Wrinkles, cellulite, dry skin.  I tried every skincare routine  with no result.  Dark circles under hooded eyes,  a zombie staring back at me.

I tried nice clothes,  good perfumes.  Still, I don’t look good.

I’ve lost myself.  Why?  I don’t know.

I tried the gym,  a healthy lifestyle,  but couldn’t gain weight.  How can I,  when I’m always sick?

And now it’s worse.  I have no money.

So the idea of him seeing  this new version of me   like this   is the last thing I want.

I don’t know why I took this road again.  All these memories  of that version of me,  of him,  of how my life used to be.

That one… wasn’t about me. wasn’t meant for me. wasn’t me.

i saw him. the old one. the one who left like a shadow, quiet and cold.

he was here. he contacted me ! again. not once, but over and over, like he forgot he disappeared.

i replied once. just once. because curiosity can feel like weakness when your heart still remembers the fall.

i saw him. all black, passing by my door — my door.

he always chooses this path. always walks past the front of my life, like he’s entitled to haunt it. i don’t know why. maybe he wants to be seen. maybe he just wants control. but i froze.

my heart went wild. not with love, with panic. with grief. with a scream trapped between my ribs.

i wanted to cry. to scream: why? why did you leave without a word? no message, no warning, just gone ... like i was nothing.

did i mean nothing to you?

what version of me did you love? because i remember the old me ! the one who left everyone else behind just to claim being with you. the one who believed in something you couldn’t even name. the one who would’ve fought the world to be yours.

you could’ve said something. anything. and i would’ve left with my head high. with dignity. but instead, you vanished. like a coward.

and now, you show up? again? trying to reclaim my attention? trying to say hello to my face?

how clever of you. how cruel.

but poor you ! there’s nothing left for you here. no softness. no warmth.

i didn’t touch him.

i don’t 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 don’t 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 it’s 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 didn’t exist.

but i did nothing. i couldn’t.

because it’s safer this way. for me.

i told him i didn’t want anything. no relationship. especially not with him. especially not him.

because with someone else, i can brace for betrayal. i won’t crack, because i’ll never hand them the softest pieces of me.

but with him… with my lemonsunset… if he ever lied, if he ever left, i’d never recover. i’d 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 it’s better this way. to break my own heart before he ever gets the chance.