And I lay awake, wondering at times, strange, unpleasant things crossing my mind. There are nights when everything is quiet except the noise in your head. The world sleeps, but your thoughts grow louder—filling the stillness with memories, doubts, questions you can’t quite answer. You think about people who once meant the world to you, relationships that never quite took shape but left behind impressions nonetheless. What do you call something that wasn’t real but still hurt to lose?
You see a persona when you look at me. That is the truth you choose to perceive. We often live in curated versions of ourselves—parts we showcase, layers we reveal. But the parts we hide, the unspoken hurts and unfinished feelings, remain buried. Sometimes we let people fall in love with the idea of us, or maybe we convince ourselves that’s enough. That if they love the version of us that makes them feel seen, safe, admired—maybe that’s all we need to be.
But what happens when the bubble bursts? Something tells me you’d leave me first. Because deep down, the fear isn’t just of being left—it’s of being left for being real. For showing the mess behind the metaphor. For revealing that maybe you weren’t always whole or poetic or easy to love. The fear is that what kept someone wasn’t you, but the illusion you accidentally constructed. I opened my phone to a memory last night. Scrolled through, stopped, my chest felt tight.
There’s something cruel about time’s passage. The way a single photo can feel like a punch to the gut. The way a saved chat or playlist from three years ago can unravel every effort you’ve made to move forward. The lines get blurry: was it love, or longing? Was it connection, or proximity?
Too strong to forget, too soft to keep.
You start wondering where the threshold lies—when does memory become an excuse, and when is it something to honour? Is it really love that calls you back to someone, or simply the fear of unfamiliarity? Is it easier to revisit the past than to risk writing a new story?
Is it longing, or just something overdue? When all my last nights keep coming back to you. There’s a strange grief in not knowing whether something was real. You’re stuck in this limbo between what you felt and what you’re allowed to feel. Because if nothing ever really happened—no confessions, no closures—then who are you to call it heartbreak?
Is it comfort or forced proximity, when silence lingers where words should be? You ask yourself if it was ever about the person, or about what they represented—a safe place, a familiar face, someone who once knew you without explanation. Someone who understood the subtext. Someone who could read the silence.
Is it habit, or is it home? Is it something real, or all we’ve ever known? You scroll through old chats, revisit half-written poems, rewatch moments that never made it to Instagram but live rent-free in your head. There’s warmth there—but is it real? Or just the comfort of routine? Because I keep coming back, tracing old tracks— But are you my anchor, or just my past? That’s the question, isn’t it? The one that keeps you up at night. Maybe it’s not even about them anymore. Maybe it’s about who you were when they knew you. Maybe it’s about who you thought you could become, if they had just stayed.
The truth is, not everything that felt real was meant to last. And not everything that ends has to be mourned like a death. Some people are echoes—not of love, but of longing. And some homes aren’t houses, they’re seasons. Temporary. Bittersweet. Unrepeatable.