8.04.2026

Am in my late twenties..  so if you , ever ask me what this beautiful, long,tragic life taught me.. if you want me to point out a word of wisdom .. then i will sit cross legged and tell you that,

I have realized that everyone is going to hurt you. Not just once, not just in ways you can predict, but in ways that arrive quietly and stay longer than you expect. It is not always loud. It is not always something you can point out at. And it's no ones fault.

People change. You change. Preferences change. Dreams change.

Some people leave with reasons, with explanations that give you something to hold onto. Others leave without a word, slowly becoming unfamiliar until they are no longer there at all. And some stay, but not in the way they once did, not with the same presence, not with the same care.

And somewhere in all of this, you get hurt...

By people.

By yourself.

By everyone.

By everything.

Again and again and again .

In different ways, but in a similar way.

And weirdly enough you will want to find someone worth suffering for...

Someone who will turn to you, in small moments of stutter. You'd  smile and nod, nudging them on.

I picture a partner, of equal standing. Already a foreign concept. I picture laughter, a lot of it. I picture tender moments sandwiched between light bickering, playful banter. I can’t fathom the face, the body, the gender. But the eyes.

Oh I know the eyes. They know me. The eyes are.. you know gateways to the soul as poets say. Eyes don’t lie. They dilate in my presence, they water in my absence. They crease with a quiet, knowing smile. Dark black eyes.

Oh to have a dream to dream..

And maybe that is all love really is in the end.

Not promises.

Not forever.

Not the desperate illusion that human beings can remain unchanged across decades of grief, ambition, distance and time.

Maybe love is simply finding someone whose becoming does not frighten you.

Someone whose silence does not make you perform.

Someone who can sit beside your sadness without rushing to translate it into solutions.

Someone who learns the shape of your soul slowly, carefully, like a language they intend to keep speaking for the rest of their life.

I think people misunderstand devotion. They imagine it as certainty. Grand declarations. Unshakable conviction.

But I think devotion is much quieter than that.

It is choosing each other in ordinary moments.

In tiredness.

In inconvenience.

In the hour after an argument when pride is still warm in the throat, yet one person still reaches for the other first.

And perhaps that is why the eyes matter to me so much.

Because eyes reveal effort.

Presence.

Love before language has the courage to admit it.

The eyes I imagine do not look at me like I am something fragile to preserve, nor something temporary to consume. They look at me like a person to understand. Fully. Deliberately. Gently.

And maybe one day I will meet those eyes in a crowded room, or across a kitchen table, or during some painfully ordinary Tuesday evening. Maybe there will be no music swelling in the background. No cinematic certainty. Just a strange calmness. A feeling of recognition older than memory itself.

And maybe that is when I will understand something else this tragic, beautiful life was trying to teach me all along:

That being hurt is unavoidable.

Being misunderstood is inevitable.

Losing people is part of loving them.

But despite all of that, despite every leaving, every silence, every version of grief that reshaped me into someone softer and stranger than before—

I still remained capable of waiting for tenderness.

And I think that means I survived beautifully....

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