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The eyes never lie. They betray us gently— revealing what pride, fear, and silence try to protect. In one look entire histories unfold. Love flickers there. So does resentment. Hope. Regret. Longing. You don’t need language when two souls are brave enough to look at each other. Eyes are doors— not to performance, but to truth. They are the place where the soul forgets how to pretend. And yet, I do not know what mine would confess. If someone searched them, what would they fin

It is strange how someone can hear a song you never listened to together — and still think of you when it plays. You were not there in that moment. You did not press play. You did not share the silence between the lyrics. And yet, somehow, your memory lingers in the melody. Life is made of this quiet unknowing. Not knowing who replays your voice in their head. Not knowing who smiles at the thought of you during an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. Not knowing who attaches you to a

This morning, as the steam from my tea rises slowly into the quiet air, I sit on my couch and let my thoughts wander through the corridors of my life. The world outside is awake, moving, demanding — yet here I am, still. Reflecting. Breathing. Remembering. I am grateful for every choice I have made. Even the ones that bruised me. Even the ones that reshaped me. They built this version of me — softer in some places, stronger in others. And yet, somewhere inside my chest, there

I have a picture of the exact moment I knew I loved him. It’s strange— how warm that memory feels, how I stood there not knowing what to expect. He had just confessed his love to me. And I captured it— that fragile second between truth and forever. His eyes were so soft on me as I turned on the camera. He was soft. A good soft. The kind you hope to see in a man— not fragile, but gentle without fear. It was probably the kindest moment he had ever been to me. I saw that look on

As I walked into the dark room, for the first time I felt a man’s hand touch my face so gently. He kissed me with all the passion he carried, and in that first kiss I felt the full warmth of love. I did not know it was not forever. He came to my chambers only to hold me tightly in his arms. And in that closeness I believed in something endless. I knew his beauty— not because I only saw his face, but because there was a beauty inside him that I felt only I could see. His dark

Nature tells us who is stronger and who is weaker. Life whispers the same. Society repeats it louder. But which one is true? The version with no polish, no performance, no convenient lies— the one stripped bare. Where does true strength live? On the inside, quiet and unseen? Or on the outside, visible, undeniable? Maybe it lives in both. Maybe in neither. Maybe it shifts between what we endure and what we reveal. All I know is this— Strength is not measured in peace, when not

The next time my eyes meet the city lights, I will belong to somewhere else. But I will never forget the place I first belonged to. Maybe my heart was already full the day I arrived. Maybe that’s why I clung so tightly to the concrete jungle. Maybe that’s why I closed my eyes and imagined a future for us— a future where I would become one with it, where its rhythm would be mine. But some futures are only meant to be imagined.

The day I stepped in, I had a feeling— I knew it was my heart’s home. Maybe soon enough I will be done with it. But where will my heart live then? I gave my soul to the peace, to the stability. But where does stability live? In the place where I am most fulfilled? Or in the place that welcomes me the most?

The soul belongs to the place where it grows. I grew here. And I broke here too. Life is strange in a lot of ways. The city I named after a person might haunt me forever. Maybe I should have named it after myself— because now I am the one haunting me. In the midst of the night. In the pale morning daylight. In the beauty of nature. In the love of the universe. And in the darkness of my own soul. The color it began with was very pure— and still, haunting.

As my heart beats, as I am in NY, as I am in my nice apartment, as I know how everything will end. I know I worked so hard just for leaving it finally. I know I broke my heart while living here. I know I hurt my own feelings by being so stubborn. Life taught me so much. But it never taught me how life can be— brutal, soft, romantic, hurtful, heartbreaking, and even cruel

For the nights I sang and danced here. For the love I gave, and the love I received. Is it too odd to be heartbroken by a city? A city named after a person, even— yet what is hurting me is not quite the person. Life is strange. The day I packed my bags to start a new journey did not seem very romantic. But my leave will be.

For the nights I sang and danced here. For the love I gave. For the love I received. Is it too odd to be heartbroken by a city? Named after a person even. But what is hurting me is not quite the person. Life is strange. The day I packed my bags to start a new journey was not seeming very romantic. But my leave will be.

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True love is never forced. You may sometimes wish you had ended up with a lover from earlier times. Life is already hard — learn not to care about unnecessary things. Not pretending you don’t care, but truly releasing what doesn’t matter. Your highest self can become anything — literally anything. Sometimes the whole world is quietly preparing the environment for you to grow into that version. True manifestation lies in belief. No matter how many times you say or write someth

Great love stories always have either a happy ending or the complete opposite, a very tragic one. But what about the space in between? The stories that end happily, yet somehow leave a gray area so heavy you can’t stand living in it for too long. Or maybe you prefer it that way, because some believe life is never truly black and white. I’m a big believer that life has a “summer season”, and I think you only get it once or at most a few times throughout the entire span of livi

The feeling of not feeling anything anymore… It’s like trying to drink water, but there’s none left in the bottle. Or wanting the last slice of pizza, only to realize you already ate it. I’m in that stage right now. I don’t feel anything anymore. I don’t love anymore. But I also don’t feel sadness. It’s not even nostalgia — my brain has erased a lot of things because of trauma. And I keep wondering… is this okay? Is it okay not to feel anything at all? Honestly, this is what

It depends. I feel like there are three types of love. The first is stupid love, where you think you love someone, but you don’t even truly know them. The second is the type of love where you are innocent, you let go, and you try to do everything right. However, it hurts the most because you ignore all your inner knowing—almost like an addiction. The third is soulmate love, where you feel the eternal source of love with someone. It feels scary, but you also know you can wait