yana

⟡ ݁₊ . ! welcome ˎˊ˗

hello, my name is leana or yana, I use she | they and I'm a writer ! I write about romance, angst, death, poetry (among other topics), and I dream of publishing a book one day. :)

my purpose on this account is to share my passion for writing and to express my innermost feelings in a space where I can do so with both comfort and freedom.

✎ᝰ. ! about me

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❀ yana — she/they | scorpio | intp-t ; 5w3

❀ things i like: writing, reading, studying, cooking, music, video games, jdramas/cdramas, anime, playing guitar, night time, cats, iced coffee, sweets

❀ comfort ytbers: kubz scouts, markiplier, ihascupquake

❀ my beloveds: roronoa zoro, kurapika kurta, levi ackerman, ijekiel alpheus, armin arlert, cloud strife, noctis lucis caelum, leon kennedy, julius gong, henry liᡣ𐭩

❀ DNI: racist, xenophobic, transphobes, homophobic, toxic, warfreaks, essentially problematic

" Sometimes, when I see something beautiful, my eyes sting with tears— because even in a world filled with pretty things, cruelty still finds its way to you. The beauty never quite reaches you because the world hasn't been kind to you. "

Purple Hyacinth: Finding Beauty After Regret

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The soft petals of a purple hyacinth hold an unspoken truth about life: beauty and sorrow often intertwine, each nourishing the emotional essence in ways the other cannot. With their hazy hue and lingering fragrance, these blossoms seem to cradle the emotions we struggle to name—those moments when words fail us, when regret seeps into the spaces between what was said and what was left unsaid.

Regret tends to remain in the delicate spots of our heart, where we least expect it. Perhaps not as a sharp pain, but as a dull, aching absence—like a flower that withered before it could bloom. The hardest part is knowing that the person we were in those moments wasn’t the person we dreamed we could have been. It nudges us gently, yet unrelentingly, with questions we can’t ignore: What if you had said those words? What if you had acted differently? What if you had given love when it was needed, or offered forgiveness when it was most difficult?

Every missed opportunity, every word we never spoke, leaves a small, dwelling bruise on our soul. Our minds treat it as a form of emotional pain, activating the same areas that respond to physical injury, as though the heart, too, has been wounded and bears the scar. It pulls us back to those times when we hesitated, when our actions didn’t align with what we wished to offer, when we chose to stay silent or step away. But in time, we realize that peace comes only when we learn to let it go.

Forgiveness, like the reticent return of something once lost, carries with it a promise of renewal. In its presence, we find an opportunity to grow—a subtle development as we reflect on the distance between who we were and who we hope to be. Though its beauty may fade, it reminds us that meaning lies not in flawless chapters but in the imperfect ones: the words left concealed, the brief memories, and the unheard gestures we hold close. In this way, we learn that regret softens into a melody, encouraging us to let go as storms drift into peace, to love without the weight of fear, to speak with greater courage, and to give voice to the thoughts we’ve been holding back. Learn to find peace and make amends with your inner being.

You are still here. You can still change. And so, we carry it—this sorrow and bittersweet existence—slowly teaching us to love the parts of ourselves that have yet to heal, and to walk forward with a heart that is both open and whole.

When your light finds me

─── ⋆₊⁺ ☀︎₊⁺⋆ ───

The sun is perpetual in its brilliance, painting the sky with colors no artist could replicate. It doesn’t ask for permission to shine; it simply exists, filling the surroundings with warmth and light. It touches everything in its path—transforming iciness into dew, into golden streaks, and barren earth into life.

And you, you are the sun given form. The way you walk into a room is like dawn breaking—quiet at first, but suddenly, all at once, you’re everywhere. You have that same warmth, that same gravity that draws people closer. Your presence feels like the first touch of sunlight after endless winter—soft but certain, as if it was always meant to be.

You don’t just warm; you heal. You reach into the shadows of others, not to erase them, but to gently remind them that even darkness needs the sun to define it. In you, I see a brilliance that is both effortless and infinite, as if you were made to hold the world’s light.

How can I paint the picture of my heart? How can I give you the entirety of my being, how much I am all yours—scattered in petals of memory, poetry, and the turbulence of my heart? If you were near, even just a breath away, I fear you’d hear the frantic pounding of my heart, feel the way my body trembles, the anxiety that ripples through me, or perhaps sense the intensity of the emotions I carry for you. God, sometimes you intoxicate me. The warmth of your existence makes my heart unfurl like a blossom at dawn, as if kissed by the first rays of sunlight. I could gather a thousand petals simply from the briefest glimpse of you.

It’s as though you’ve planted flowers inside my lungs and although they are beautiful, yes, but they’ve grown so wildly that I can hardly breathe anymore. I can’t keep falling without knowing where the ground is. It’s overwhelming, and yet, it’s never enough. Please, let me breathe—I’m drowning in the depth of what I feel for you.

If I am a sunflower, as you say, would you be the sun that holds my dreams, the light that dances through my soul and makes me awaken with a love I never knew existed?

❝ picture holding a fragile glass in your hands, and instead of cherishing its beauty, you obsess over the cracks, forgetting it still holds something precious. ❞

To please the world, to lose the self. 𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖

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I wear thorns on my skin and let roses bloom in my wake. The prickles cut deep into my flesh, leaving wounds that reach my heart—raw and aching, yet it beats louder than the silence that threatens to swallow me whole. I rip a piece of my own cloth to bind the wound, yet the blood seeps through the fabric no matter how tightly I pull.

I turn away from the gore, choosing to embrace the ache instead.

I brew my coffee and stir the bitterness with a touch of milk, but it never fully dissolves. I take the first sip, feeling the warmth settle, but the cup’s edges remain rough, as if the comfort is never quite complete. I sat and watched the coffee turn cold, the steam dissipating as the weight of inaction wrapped itself around me, and an unspoken shame clung to my every thought—guilt.

I walk the brink and let the winds carry me when they please. I bend with the breeze, even when it pulls me in directions I never intended. Why does the sky seem darker when I choose my own path? I wonder if the breeze will turn bitter, if the earth beneath me will crack. The more I fight the wind, the more I question if I’ve broken something sacred—or if I’ve simply stopped drifting.

But as I let the wind decide, I realize I’m no longer sure where I end and others begin. Every shift in direction feels like a compromise, and the more I bend to please, the more I forget who I’m meant to be.