• Random

    Rainy Days

    May 30, 2025

    It’s raining again today. And just like so many times before, you came to mind.
    There’s this one memory that always returns when it rains—the one where you sent me a video from your place. I couldn’t even see the rain clearly, but I could hear it… and your voice in the background. I remember how much you said you loved the rain.

    Funny how I used to hate it. I really did.

    But because of you, I started to love it in small ways. Like how it waters the plants for me, saving me the effort of lugging a heavy pail since our hose doesn’t quite reach everything. Rain makes things a little easier, a little softer.

    But it’s not just the plants I think about.

    The rain brings back all sorts of memories—some sweet, some a bit wild (I’ll keep that one to myself). Still, they all point back to a time I miss. I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are. As for me? I’m still finding my way. Still not quite okay.

    I sent you an email recently, hoping you’d see it. I don’t know if you will. It’s the only thing I could hold onto—your email address still stuck in my memory. I deleted Dark Wars, disabled Discord, and I couldn’t find you on Telegram anymore.

    But the rain? It finds me every time.

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  • Personal

    It Was Almost Something

    May 29, 2025

    It wasn’t love—
    not the kind with promises,
    not the kind that stays.
    But it was something.

    A glance that lingered,
    a message that made me smile,
    a voice I wanted to keep
    like a favorite song
    I wasn’t ready to forget.

    For a while,
    it felt like we were building
    something quiet,
    something real.

    Then came the silence—
    not loud, not cruel,
    just slow.
    Distant.

    And I didn’t know how to hold on
    to something slipping
    without a sound.

    I miss you.
    Not because we had everything—
    but because we almost did.

    And sometimes,
    it’s the almosts
    that hurt
    the most.

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  • Personal

    Dear Self

    May 29, 2025

    I wasn’t sure if I should share this. It’s personal. Raw. Still a little tender.

    But maybe someone out there needs to hear it — to know they’re not alone in the quiet ache of a connection that didn’t become what they hoped.

    Dear Self,
  
I know how you feel, and I am sorry for causing you this pain.
  
We’ve been very cautious these past years, guarding ourselves, healing, slowly learning how to trust again. But this time… we let someone in. We gave him a piece of us — a piece we’ve never shared with anyone else. It was real. And it mattered.
  
But now here we are… heartbroken by how things unfolded.
  
The connection was there. We felt it. We weren’t imagining it. But somewhere along the way, it started to fade — slowly, quietly. And we were left trying to understand a silence that never gave us answers.
  
We don’t know exactly what changed. Maybe he pulled away. Maybe we leaned in too much. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to grow.
  
We can’t blame him, not fully. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with the kind of love we were ready to give. Maybe we misunderstood his warmth and gave meaning to gestures that meant something different to him than they did to us.
  
And that’s okay.
  
What we gave came from a pure place. It wasn’t foolish — it was brave. Loving, even in uncertainty, is never something to regret.
  
So now, dear self, I know you're hurting. I know you’re reliving moments, re-reading messages, and wondering what if.
  
But I promise you: this pain won’t last forever. One day, this won’t feel like the end of the world. It will feel like a chapter that helped you grow — and soften — without breaking you.
  
You are still whole. You are still worthy. And you will love again.
  
With patience, Me

    Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It’s messy, slow, and often silent. But writing this helped me start to move through it — to remind myself that loving fully, even when things don’t last, is still something to be proud of.

    If this letter speaks to something in you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Or just know you’re not alone — even if you don’t say a word.

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  • Random

    Where We Met, Where We Drifted

    May 28, 2025

    We met in Dark War Survival game
    Through an alliance lost to night.
    Yet memories of our firsts remain,
    Playing side by side, through joy and pain.

    You reinforced my base with care,
    A quiet trust was in the air.
    We moved alliances, then it drifted apart,
    You moved on—I stayed, with a hesitant heart.

    Should I have followed where you went?
    A question I’ve often quietly spent.
    You moved again and called me near,
    But stayed for another week.

    Now we share the same alliance once more,
    But the bond we had is not as before.
    I’ve deleted Dark Wars, closed that door,
    Yet in my heart, I still want more.

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  • Personal

    A Goodbye I Didn’t Want to Write

    May 28, 2025

    Dear Blog,

    Today, I did something that felt both heavy and freeing—I let go of someone who had quietly become part of my every day.

    His name is Jubal. We met through a game—Dark War Survival. A simple invite turned into long chats, late-night messages, voice notes, laughter, and daily check-ins. What started as gaming slowly turned into something gentler, more constant. He became a comfort. My favorite distraction. My highlight.

    But lately… things changed. The replies became shorter. The tone colder. And eventually, the silence between us grew louder than the conversations ever were.

    I asked if something was wrong. He said, “Nothing’s wrong.” But I could feel it.

    Still, I waited. I held on—maybe longer than I should have. I told myself the silence was temporary. That maybe one day I’d get a voice note again or even just a “Hey, I missed you.” But that day never came.

    So I wrote him one last message. Not to beg, not to blame. Just to be honest.

    His reply was one word: “Okay.”

    And that was the moment I knew—we were no longer holding the same thing.

    So I quietly let go.

    I deleted Dark War Survival. I disabled Discord. Not out of anger, but as a way to protect the part of me that had slowly started to feel exposed.

    And it hurt—because for over a month, he was someone I looked forward to. Someone who asked if I’d eaten, teased me about Coke, told me to get up and stretch. We talked about food, dogs, our shared ECE backgrounds, love, connection. And now… silence.

    But I don’t regret a thing.

    He reminded me that I can feel again. That I want to feel again. That even behind a screen, across countries and time zones, something real can still form. Something tender. Even if it doesn’t last.

    So this isn’t a goodbye. Not really.

    It’s just me choosing myself for now. Moving forward. With grace. With the quiet hope that if what we had meant something on his end too, maybe… someday… we’ll find our way back to that version of us.

    And if not, that’s okay too.

    Thank you, Jubal, for being a small but meaningful chapter in my story. I just wish it had lasted a little longer.

    ⸝

    P.S. There’s something I couldn’t say out loud—so I wrote it instead. It’s tucked away here, password protected.
    Password: yourfullname
    Only you were meant to read it.

    Love,
    Me

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