biting the apple

I still don't understand how someone I barely knew could leave this much behind. We never dated. There was no beginning to ruin, no ending to explain. Just a short stretch of time where something felt real, and then it was gone. It was small things that did it. The way talking felt easy. The way I didn't have to try so hard to be myself. For a moment, I felt seen, and that feeling dug in deeper than I expected. I think my heart noticed before my mind did, and by the time I caught up, it was already too late. What hurts most is that nothing actually happened. There's nothing to point to and say, this where it went wrong. It just... it didn't go anywhere. And I'm left carrying feelings that had nowhere to land. Loving someone quietly, alone, is exhausting. It feels embarrassing sometimes—like I made it all up, like it meant more to me than it could ever have to them. I replay moments, wondering if I imagined the connection, or if it was real but only on my side. I thi...

I feel burdened by the weight of being seen through someone else's eyes, and by how much space their opinions can take up in my chest if I let them. There's a quiet pressure in being perceived, of being labeled, remembered, and reduced to versions of ourselves we've already outgrown. Sometimes I catch myself believing the way others see me must be the truth. That if enough people misunderstand me, maybe I really am what they think. But perception is unstable. It shifts with mood, memory, and assumption. It often reveals more about the observer than the subject, though not always, because sometimes it's simply incomplete. I remember a moment when this became clear. Someone I care about brought up something I said years ago, as if it still defines me. I tried to explain that I no longer think or feel that way anymore, but I could tell they were speaking to that older version of me instead of the person I have become. I left that conversation feeling strangely invisible, l...

Thursday afternoon. The light outside is soft, almost kind. I wish I felt the same way. I'm drowning myself in music, still looping the sad playlist I found last night. It offers a kind of sadness that doesn't ask questions. It just sits with me, giving me enough stillness to write. I'm not looking for sympathy, just some release. Maybe I've run out of ways to say the same things without feeling ashamed. I hate how often I've had to unpack everything onto the same few people. The same thoughts, the same grief resurfacing, the same quiet unraveling. It's gotten to the point where vulnerability feels like embarrassment, so I retreat to this instead. I've been trying to learn how to let go, or move forward, whatever that's supposed to mean. Everyone says it gets easier. I'm still waiting for that part. Some days I convince myself I'm okay. That I'm past it. That I've accepted what happened. But if that were true, I wouldn't feel this def...