Charm In Ink

  After almost a year, we met again. We saw each other. You’ve changed a lot — I told you that. You said I still looked the same. We had coffee, shared a drink from the same cup, and you agreed to come home with me — to the family that once called you their own. You were there again, and it felt so familiar. So soft. So quietly significant. We talked about life — where we’ve been, how we’ve changed, how the world moved forward even without each other. And maybe because I know you too well, I caught it. That moment when something you said didn’t feel like the truth. I didn’t call it out. I didn’t have to. I knew. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was protection — for you, for me, for whatever we still didn’t have the words for. But here’s what I do know: That night could have been the start of something new… or it could’ve been the closure I didn’t know I was waiting for. I love you. That much I’m sure of. God knows how much I love you — even after everything. But maybe what we sh...

  Today, I attended what may very well be my last face-to-face undergraduate class — not just for the semester, but maybe for my entire college life. Not maybe . I hope . I pray . I need it to be the last one. As I walked out of that classroom, I was hit with a flood of emotions. Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s still so much uncertainty. I have three major requirements left , and I honestly don’t know if I’ll make it. I’m praying — to every god and force out there — please, help me graduate this semester. It feels so surreal to be here. I started college twelve years ago . Twelve years. That’s a lifetime of starting, stopping, falling behind, trying again. And now, as I stand at the edge of what I hope is the finish line, I’m feeling a mix of fear, hope, nostalgia, and exhaustion . "What happens if I don’t make it this time? What do I do? What face do I have left to show?" Despite the fear, I know there are still things I can do. I can still give i...

I love him, but I am afraid. Almost a year has passed since we broke up. We once promised each other forever, shared inside jokes that only we understand, and made memories that still echo in my heart. Now, after all this time, I find myself reconnecting with him — a connection I thought I had to let go of. Keeping myself away, practicing no contact, was torture. But now, I want nothing more than to go back to him, to make us a thing again. I’ve asked him if there is someone new in his life, but he refuses to answer. He tells me he doesn’t want to talk about it. That silence is painful, confusing, and leaves me hanging between hope and doubt. I can feel the spark between us when we chat — something familiar and electric that hasn’t completely faded. But I also know I cannot read him completely, and I cannot jump to conclusions about what he feels for me. God knows how much I miss him, how deeply I love him. I cannot even picture a future without him in it. Sometimes I wonder — am I...

  There are moments in life when someone begins to feel like every move they make is under surveillance — not out of care, but out of doubt. She feels it deeply now. Supposedly, everyone around her stands as equals. Supposedly, they are her friends. But in reality, she senses something different — something heavy. To her, it feels like people are just waiting for her to make a mistake. Every action she takes is questioned, every decision second-guessed. She notices how others are given space to move freely, to make choices without judgment. But when it comes to her, it’s as if the rules suddenly change. The trust that others receive without question is something she has to earn — over and over again — and even then, it’s never really granted. What’s worse is how these people claim it’s all out of care and concern. But to her, it feels hollow — like a twisted version of compassion. It's as if they’ve become emotionless, robotic in the way they interact — driven more by quiet resentm...

I’m just lost. I feel like I’m always one inch away from a panic attack. My emotions are all over the place. Some days I’m okay, and then out of nowhere, it hits me—that wave of anxiety, the lump in my throat, the nausea that tells me I’m overwhelmed again. And the worst part is, I don’t even know where to start untangling it. It’s not just one thing. It’s everything . I’m reconnecting with an ex—something complicated and emotionally layered. I’m doing my best to graduate, to not fall behind. I’m prepping for an overseas trip, which should feel exciting but mostly just adds more stress. I have debts that keep me up at night. I need money. I need to show up at work, to lead by example, to be reliable. I need to convince my family I’m doing okay—even when I’m not. It’s like I’m being pulled in ten directions at once. Sometimes all I can do is focus on what’s right in front of me. But even then, my thoughts feel like static. I can’t process anything clearly. I’m scared—of the future, o...

Sometimes, I think I’ve just grown too comfortable with the way things are. Maybe I’ve stayed in one place—physically, emotionally, mentally—for so long that I forgot to ask myself if I was still okay. But recently, there’s been this unsettling feeling growing inside me. A quiet whisper that I no longer belong here. That maybe I’ve become invisible. That the things I do, the effort I give, and the heart I put into everything I touch are no longer seen or appreciated. I’ve spent over a decade in this space. That’s more than ten years of sleepless nights, of swallowing stress, of tears shed in silence. But also, ten years of laughter, of beautiful memories, of pouring love into what I do. I’ve given so much—but lately, I find myself questioning: Was it ever enough? Am I still enough? I know there were times my worth was seen. I know I’ve made an impact. I’ve had moments of being appreciated, even celebrated. But as people often say, “You’re only as good as your last performance.” An...

They say going no contact after a breakup is the healthiest way to move on — to protect your peace, heal your heart, and start fresh. I believed that too. But after ten months of silence, I realized my version of “healing” was actually hiding. This is what happened when I finally reached out to the one person I wasn’t supposed to miss. For almost ten months, I’ve been convincing myself that going no contact after our breakup was the best way to heal. No texting, no checking in — just silence, with the occasional birthday greeting or “Happy Holidays” message. I thought this was what healing looked like. I thought distance would help me move on. But I was wrong. These past ten months have felt more like slow, quiet torture. Every time I stopped myself from reaching out, I knew deep down that I wasn’t protecting myself — I was just suppressing how much I still missed my ex and wanted to be part of his life. We didn’t end on bad terms. The breakup hurt — God, it really fucking hurt —...