u/Anatomyofmess

My mother deserves more than being needed
She is a homemaker.
She spent seven years in college. Just when she was about to start working, health issues made it difficult for her to do so.
Since then, I have watched her become the kind of person who never seems to stop.
She wakes up at 5 in the morning. From the moment she wakes up until she goes to bed, there is always something she is doing around the house.
And she never says, “I’m tired.”
She actually has so many hobbies — reading, stitching, crochet. But somewhere along the way, I watched those things slowly disappear from her everyday life.
I have told her so many times, “Please leave the household chores for a while. Do something for yourself.”
She never listens.
A few days ago, she made rosette cookies. My sister and I both live in hostels, away from home, and when my mom came to visit us, she brought some.
I ate them. My friends ate them too.
And honestly, her cookies are amazing.
My sister’s friends were especially dramatic about it. They started saying things like, “Your mom deserves a golden bangle for these cookies!”
And somehow, that little bit of praise completely lit her up.
Now she is spending even more time in the kitchen making cookies. She’s planning to send my sister cookies every week.
And that’s what made me strangely furious.
Not because she doesn’t deserve appreciation.
She absolutely does.
But I don’t want my mother to believe that her worth comes from how much she can do for everyone else.
I’ve seen more of my mother than her household chores.
I’ve seen the woman who encouraged me when everyone else had given up on me.
I’ve seen her stand beside me through my tears, my doubts and the moments when I didn’t believe in myself.
I’ve admired her courage.
Maybe circumstances stopped her from having the career she once imagined. Maybe life slowly pushed her into a role where she became responsible for everyone and everything.
But she is more than the kitchen.
She is more than the food she makes.
She is more than the clean house, the folded clothes and the things she does for us without ever complaining.
I don’t want her to spend the rest of her life proving how much she can do for other people.
I want her to read the books she keeps aside.
I want her to crochet because she enjoys it, not because someone is waiting for something she made.
I want her to have hobbies again.
I want her to rest without feeling guilty.
I want her to have a life that belongs to her.
Because my mother deserves appreciation, yes.
But more than that, she deserves a life beyond being needed.

I never imagined that one day I would have to learn how to live with a diagnosis.
Being diagnosed with clinical depression changed the way I looked at my life. I’ve been on medication for the past four years, and sometimes, despite everything I do, I still feel like I’m stuck in the same loop.
There are days when I wonder, What if nothing is ever going to work? What if this is just how my life is going to be?
People often tell you, “You have to be the one to come out of it.”
I understand what they mean. But sometimes I wonder — if I could simply pull myself out of it, would I have needed help in the first place?
Living with anxiety and depression has also made me question myself.
I have always been sensitive. I feel things deeply. I empathise with people easily. I overthink, I care too much, and sometimes my heart feels like it has no filter.
But those things are also a part of who I am.
I don’t want to lose my ability to feel deeply just because sometimes it hurts. I don’t want to become a completely different person just to become “better.”
So sometimes I ask myself:
Who am I without my anxiety and depression?
Honestly, I don’t know.
I’m still figuring that out.
I’m a mess sometimes. And strangely enough, sometimes I love that about myself too. Not the pain, not the anxiety, not the difficult days — but the imperfect, emotional and sensitive person underneath all of it.
Maybe my parents worry about me. Maybe the people who love me wish they could take it all away.
But I’ve also learned that I don’t always need someone to fix me.
Sometimes, I just need someone who will listen to my messy thoughts, sit with me through them, and help me find my way back to calm.
I’m slowly accepting that I may have to live with my anxiety and depression for a while. I take my tablets, keep showing up, and learn ways to live alongside it.
Maybe I’ll overcome it someday.
Maybe I’ll learn to live with it.
But one thing I know for sure is that I’ve learned not to give up on myself.
Whatever the situation is, I’ve learned to be resilient.
And maybe that, too, is a part of who I am.

I never imagined that one day I would have to learn how to live with a diagnosis.
Being diagnosed with clinical depression changed the way I looked at my life. I’ve been on medication for the past four years, and sometimes, despite everything I do, I still feel like I’m stuck in the same loop.
There are days when I wonder, What if nothing is ever going to work? What if this is just how my life is going to be?
People often tell you, “You have to be the one to come out of it.”
I understand what they mean. But sometimes I wonder — if I could simply pull myself out of it, would I have needed help in the first place?
Living with anxiety and depression has also made me question myself.
I have always been sensitive. I feel things deeply. I empathise with people easily. I overthink, I care too much, and sometimes my heart feels like it has no filter.
But those things are also a part of who I am.
I don’t want to lose my ability to feel deeply just because sometimes it hurts. I don’t want to become a completely different person just to become “better.”
So sometimes I ask myself:
Who am I without my anxiety and depression?
Honestly, I don’t know.
I’m still figuring that out.
I’m a mess sometimes. And strangely enough, sometimes I love that about myself too. Not the pain, not the anxiety, not the difficult days — but the imperfect, emotional and sensitive person underneath all of it.
Maybe my parents worry about me. Maybe the people who love me wish they could take it all away.
But I’ve also learned that I don’t always need someone to fix me.
Sometimes, I just need someone who will listen to my messy thoughts, sit with me through them, and help me find my way back to calm.
I’m slowly accepting that I may have to live with my anxiety and depression for a while. I take my tablets, keep showing up, and learn ways to live alongside it.
Maybe I’ll overcome it someday.
Maybe I’ll learn to live with it.
But one thing I know for sure is that I’ve learned not to give up on myself.
Whatever the situation is, I’ve learned to be resilient.
And maybe that, too, is a part of who I am.

Some patients stay with you long after they leave the dental chair.
She was sixteen.
Her mother handed me the OP card at the reception while her daughter wandered into the play area, smiling quietly to herself. Her mother took a seat among the other parents in the waiting area.
I called the girl’s name.
There was no response.
I called again.
Still nothing.
So I turned toward the waiting area. Her mother walked over, and I gently told her that her daughter hadn’t responded when I called.
She smiled kindly.
“She’s a special child.”
That was the beginning of a story I wasn’t expecting to hear.
Her daughter had **Triple A syndrome**—a rare condition characterized by **alacrima** (reduced or absent tears), **achalasia** (difficulty swallowing because the lower esophageal sphincter doesn’t relax properly), and **adrenal insufficiency**. She also lived with an intellectual disability.
When she sat in the dental chair, I noticed that only her two upper front teeth remained. Most of the other upper teeth had broken down into root stumps, while her lower teeth were relatively less affected.
There were vesicle-like lesions on both sides of her lips, and the tissues inside her mouth appeared unusually red.
As we continued talking, her mother shared something else.
Her daughter wasn’t the only child affected.
Her son also had the same syndrome.
Then she quietly said something that stayed with me.
“Their father has given up on them.”
She didn’t say it with anger.
She didn’t blame him.
She simply stated it as though she had accepted carrying the weight alone.
Yet there she was.
Bringing both of her children to appointments.
Answering every question.
Showing up.
Still hoping.
As I listened, one of the staff members quietly reminded me to be cautious while examining her.
But before I could think any further, the girl stretched out her hand toward me.
A high five.
I smiled and met her hand.
Then, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around me in a hug.
For a brief moment, the diagnosis disappeared.
The syndrome disappeared.
The damaged teeth disappeared.
She wasn’t a rare medical condition anymore.
She was simply a sixteen-year-old girl offering kindness in the purest way she knew.
That hug lasted only a few seconds.
But it has stayed with me ever since.
Dental school teaches us to recognize syndromes.
Medicine teaches us to diagnose diseases.
But patients teach us something far more important.
Sometimes, the strongest person in the clinic isn’t the doctor.
Sometimes it’s the mother who refuses to give up.
And sometimes, it’s the child who reminds us that compassion needs no explanation.

Some patients stay with you long after they leave the dental chair.
She was sixteen.
Her mother handed me the OP card at the reception while her daughter wandered into the play area, smiling quietly to herself. Her mother took a seat among the other parents in the waiting area.
I called the girl’s name.
There was no response.
I called again.
Still nothing.
So I turned toward the waiting area. Her mother walked over, and I gently told her that her daughter hadn’t responded when I called.
She smiled kindly.
“She’s a special child.”
That was the beginning of a story I wasn’t expecting to hear.
Her daughter had **Triple A syndrome**—a rare condition characterized by **alacrima** (reduced or absent tears), **achalasia** (difficulty swallowing because the lower esophageal sphincter doesn’t relax properly), and **adrenal insufficiency**. She also lived with an intellectual disability.
When she sat in the dental chair, I noticed that only her two upper front teeth remained. Most of the other upper teeth had broken down into root stumps, while her lower teeth were relatively less affected.
There were vesicle-like lesions on both sides of her lips, and the tissues inside her mouth appeared unusually red.
As we continued talking, her mother shared something else.
Her daughter wasn’t the only child affected.
Her son also had the same syndrome.
Then she quietly said something that stayed with me.
“Their father has given up on them.”
She didn’t say it with anger.
She didn’t blame him.
She simply stated it as though she had accepted carrying the weight alone.
Yet there she was.
Bringing both of her children to appointments.
Answering every question.
Showing up.
Still hoping.
As I listened, one of the staff members quietly reminded me to be cautious while examining her.
But before I could think any further, the girl stretched out her hand toward me.
A high five.
I smiled and met her hand.
Then, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around me in a hug.
For a brief moment, the diagnosis disappeared.
The syndrome disappeared.
The damaged teeth disappeared.
She wasn’t a rare medical condition anymore.
She was simply a sixteen-year-old girl offering kindness in the purest way she knew.
That hug lasted only a few seconds.
But it has stayed with me ever since.
Dental school teaches us to recognize syndromes.
Medicine teaches us to diagnose diseases.
But patients teach us something far more important.
Sometimes, the strongest person in the clinic isn’t the doctor.
Sometimes it’s the mother who refuses to give up.
And sometimes, it’s the child who reminds us that compassion needs no explanation.

I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is normal, but I’m going through a lot right now.
There’s this guy I’m madly obsessed with. My psychologist told me that a lot of what I’m experiencing could be connected to attachment issues from my childhood, and honestly, I can see that.
But understanding where my attachment comes from doesn’t make my romantic feelings for him any less real.
I know what I felt for him was genuine.
Somewhere inside me, I’m still hoping he’ll come across one of my Reddit or Substack posts and read the things I’ve written for him. The funny part is, I even started an account hoping I could somehow reach him through my writing.
It didn’t work.
Maybe that’s just my luck. Or maybe I’m choosing to look at it positively because I need something to hold on to right now.
Maybe the universe—or God—has better plans for me.
Maybe my brain needs to believe that so I can remain optimistic. I don’t know.
But right now, all I’m asking from the universe is: please, give me a chance.
Whether it’s the chance I’m hoping for with him or something beautiful I can’t see yet, please let something good happen.
This girl really needs something positive in her life. 🤍

A psychiatric patient was referred for a dental opinion.
When she first came to me, I asked her about her complaint.
She told me that her husband had beaten her and that her front teeth were broken.
Then I noticed in her records that she was a patient with schizophrenia and had been on medication for the past five years.
For a moment, I didn’t know whether what she was telling me was real or part of her illness.
I asked the person accompanying her what had happened. Had she fallen somewhere? Was there another explanation?
But no.
What she had told me was true.
She had been physically abused.
As I went through her history, I read about her episodes of hallucinations and delusions involving her husband and her sister. During one such episode, a confrontation had occurred. Her husband had tried to control the situation.
But somewhere along the way, “controlling the situation” became violence.
She was beaten until she bled.
Her teeth were broken.
Whatever the circumstances surrounding that moment, the injuries in front of me were real. The violence she experienced was real.
I don’t know what happened after that. I don’t know whether the incident was reported as domestic violence or whether any action was taken.
But the encounter stayed with me.
Perhaps because my first instinct was to question her story once I learned about her psychiatric diagnosis.
It made me think about how easily the words of someone with a mental illness can be doubted. How their diagnosis can sometimes speak louder than they do.
A person can experience hallucinations and still experience real pain.
A person can live with a psychiatric illness and still be a victim of violence.
And while we continue to speak about feminism, women’s rights, and progress, somewhere there are still lives being lived behind closed doors—lives where abuse remains unseen, unheard, or unquestioned.
Sometimes, the person telling us they are hurting is simply telling us the truth.
And perhaps the least we can do is listen.

I hoped there would be a red string attached to him.
I hoped destiny would lead me to him.
That day, I spoke to him.
I told him how I felt.
Somewhere in that conversation, I understood something.
He should never be my red string. He should never be my destiny.
As a girl who grew up in a traumatic environment, I never wanted a life filled with more trauma. No matter what life threw at me, my mom stood beside me. She never walked away. She became the safest place I knew.
That made me realize what I truly want.
People say self-love is enough. Maybe it is for some. But I grew up believing someone like Flynn Rider would come—not to rescue me from life, but to stand beside me the way he stood beside Rapunzel when it mattered most.
Yes, he had feelings for me.
But I also realized something else.
He would never stand up for me.
I have risked my health, my comfort, and so much of myself to become the person I am today. I have fallen countless times, but every single time, I chose to get back up.
He never takes risks.
Maybe that’s who he is. There is nothing wrong with that. But it is not what I need.
I’m still not completely sure what I’m searching for in a partner.
What I do know is this:
I want someone with my mother’s strength in a man’s heart—someone who stays beside me through difficult decisions, stands with me when life gets hard, and reminds me that I don’t have to face everything alone.
Forgetting the petrolhead isn’t easy.
My nervous system hasn’t accepted it
I m not sure time will heal me
But my perseverance will.

I watched Made in India: A Titan Story.
Somewhere between the episodes, I found myself thinking about a Titan Raga watch.
My sister once asked me what watch I would choose if I could have any. My answer came instantly: Titan Raga. It felt familiar—modern, yet rooted in something distinctly Indian.
My parents gifted me one for my birthday in 2024.
I wore it for a while, until clinical postings began. Between gloves, handwashing, and patient care, I stopped wearing anything on my wrists. The watch found its way into a cupboard, and life moved on.
After watching the series, I went looking for it.
The watch hadn’t changed. Yet it didn’t look the same anymore.
For the first time, I wasn’t seeing a watch. I was seeing the people behind it, the craftsmanship behind it, the memories attached to it, and the version of myself who once wore it every day.
Maybe that’s why autobiographies and origin stories feel different.
They remind us that things are rarely just things.
The watch is never only a watch anymore.
Its meaning changed with the perspective I brought to it.
Yesterday, it was a birthday gift.
Today, it feels like a story of craftsmanship, memory, family, and a younger version of myself.
Maybe that’s why stories are art.
They don’t change.
We do.
And each time we return to them, they reveal something new

Have you ever believed in destiny?

I have not, until it was my turn to be humbled by it.

Growing up, my dad used to say,
“Destiny is what you write. It’s your hard work and effort.”

I aimed to be a doctor during my school days. I watched that medical seat slip off my hands. It felt like a medical degree was not for me.

I had to choose dental.

BDS was good for me. For someone who is creative and felt studies took away that side, BDS did justice to me there. It made me explore the right side of my brain.

They say if something is meant for you, it would cross oceans.

My 2019 version of me would not believe what I went through.

Recently, I met someone at a dental camp.

I never dated him or even really spoke with him. Yet he completely occupied my mind.

I did tell him I liked him a lot.
Maybe I didn’t communicate that properly.

He didn’t make fun of it or take advantage of that.
He simply asked if I was okay.

I said I’ll be fine.

And here I am, actually not.

Writing because my hands need somewhere to put this — this thing that sits in my chest like a tooth that hasn’t erupted yet, pressing quietly against everything.

And here I am wondering…

Wouldn’t me and him have an invisible red string attached?

Wouldn’t he cross oceans for me?

Wouldn’t he be my destiny?

Or simply a character that slipped away like my medical seat?

Maybe I’m overthinking and connecting things.

Have you ever believed in destiny?

I have not, until it was my turn to be humbled by it.

Growing up, my dad used to say,
“Destiny is what you write. It’s your hard work and effort.”

I aimed to be a doctor during my school days. I watched that medical seat slip off my hands. It felt like a medical degree was not for me.

I had to choose dental.

BDS was good for me. For someone who is creative and felt studies took away that side, BDS did justice to me there. It made me explore the right side of my brain.

They say if something is meant for you, it would cross oceans.

My 2019 version of me would not believe what I went through.

Recently, I met someone at a dental camp.

I never dated him or even really spoke with him. Yet he completely occupied my mind.

I did tell him I liked him a lot.
Maybe I didn’t communicate that properly.

He didn’t make fun of it or take advantage of that.
He simply asked if I was okay.

I said I’ll be fine.

And here I am, actually not.

Writing because my hands need somewhere to put this — this thing that sits in my chest like a tooth that hasn’t erupted yet, pressing quietly against everything.

And here I am wondering…

Wouldn’t me and him have an invisible red string attached?

Wouldn’t he cross oceans for me?

Wouldn’t he be my destiny?

Or simply a character that slipped away like my medical seat?

Maybe I’m overthinking and connecting things.

My mother is Hindu and my father is an atheist.
Growing up, my mother believed black was an evil color. My sister and I were discouraged from wearing black clothes. My father occasionally questioned this, but my mother would always reply, “The elders must have told us this for a reason.”
As a child, I never thought much about it. Black was just another color.
In 2019, when I was in 12th standard, I helped organize our Teachers’ Day celebrations. The school captain chose gold, silver, and black as the theme for the invitations. Another girl and I spent nearly two days making around 120 butterfly-themed greeting cards by hand.
I was absent the next day.
When I returned, I learned the staff were furious. They said the colors looked like mourning colors and were inappropriate for a celebration. We were asked to redo all 120 invitations.
What stayed with me was not the criticism, but the disregard for the effort behind the work. We were board exam students. We had given up our time, stayed back after school, and carefully made every card. Yet the discussion focused entirely on the symbolism of a color.
When I told my mother, she simply said, “Consider this a lesson.”
I replied, perhaps a little dramatically, “My hair is black. My eyes are black. Should I throw them away too?”
Years later, after moving into a hostel, I bought a black Kalamkari bedsheet. It stayed on my bed for two days before I washed it and replaced it with a colorful one. But the room felt different afterward.
Lighter.
Warmer.
More alive.
That was when I began to understand something I had long dismissed. Colors do affect us. They influence mood and shape how we experience a space. A bright room feels different from a dark one. Color psychology is real.
But that realization did not make my mother right.
Black is not evil. It is not a moral failing or a bad omen. It is a color that carries different meanings in different hands — elegance in one culture, mourning in another, power in one context, grief in the next. In some traditions, white is the color of loss; in others, it signals purity. The color itself does not change. The meaning we attach to it does.
What the Teachers’ Day invitations taught me was not about choosing the right color. It was about how strongly people cling to symbols — sometimes so strongly that they forget the human effort behind them. One hundred and twenty handmade cards, two days of work, and what the staff saw was a funeral palette.
Maybe the world is not losing colour.
Maybe every generation is simply arguing about what colours mean — and forgetting, in the argument, to look at the people behind the choice

My mother is Hindu and my father is an atheist.
Growing up, my mother believed black was an evil color. My sister and I were discouraged from wearing black clothes. My father occasionally questioned this, but my mother would always reply, “The elders must have told us this for a reason.”
As a child, I never thought much about it. Black was just another color.
In 2019, when I was in 12th standard, I helped organize our Teachers’ Day celebrations. The school captain chose gold, silver, and black as the theme for the invitations. Another girl and I spent nearly two days making around 120 butterfly-themed greeting cards by hand.
I was absent the next day.
When I returned, I learned the staff were furious. They said the colors looked like mourning colors and were inappropriate for a celebration. We were asked to redo all 120 invitations.
What stayed with me was not the criticism, but the disregard for the effort behind the work. We were board exam students. We had given up our time, stayed back after school, and carefully made every card. Yet the discussion focused entirely on the symbolism of a color.
When I told my mother, she simply said, “Consider this a lesson.”
I replied, perhaps a little dramatically, “My hair is black. My eyes are black. Should I throw them away too?”
Years later, after moving into a hostel, I bought a black Kalamkari bedsheet. It stayed on my bed for two days before I washed it and replaced it with a colorful one. But the room felt different afterward.
Lighter.
Warmer.
More alive.
That was when I began to understand something I had long dismissed. Colors do affect us. They influence mood and shape how we experience a space. A bright room feels different from a dark one. Color psychology is real.
But that realization did not make my mother right.
Black is not evil. It is not a moral failing or a bad omen. It is a color that carries different meanings in different hands — elegance in one culture, mourning in another, power in one context, grief in the next. In some traditions, white is the color of loss; in others, it signals purity. The color itself does not change. The meaning we attach to it does.
What the Teachers’ Day invitations taught me was not about choosing the right color. It was about how strongly people cling to symbols — sometimes so strongly that they forget the human effort behind them. One hundred and twenty handmade cards, two days of work, and what the staff saw was a funeral palette.
Maybe the world is not losing colour.
Maybe every generation is simply arguing about what colours mean — and forgetting, in the argument, to look at the people behind the choice

I (23F) am a dentist and have developed strong feelings for a man (27M) who is an engineer.

The difficult part is that there was never really a relationship between us. We’ve had some contact over the past few months, but we’ve never had a meaningful ongoing conversation, never dated, and there has never been any clear indication that he feels the same way.

Most of my feelings grew through admiration, hope, and the idea of what a relationship with him could be. Looking back, I realize that much of the connection existed in my imagination rather than in reality.

Even though I know this logically, the emotions feel very real. I find myself thinking about him often, feeling sad when he doesn’t respond, and grieving something that technically never existed.

I feel embarrassed that I’ve become this emotionally invested in someone who was never actually a significant part of my life.

For those who have experienced limerence, unrequited feelings, or attachment to someone they never truly dated, what helped you accept reality and move forward emotionally?

I’m running through a lot of emotions right now.

Sadness. Confusion. Feeling broken.

Everything at once.

I’ve moved on from my past relationships, yet here I am, in love with someone I call the “petrolhead guy.”

Me — a dentist filled with anxiety, overthinking, and occasional panic.

Him — an engineer who seems mature, calm, neat, and put together.

I don’t know if anything will ever come out of this.

The truth is, most of my story with him exists only in my imagination and in my dreams.

We never really had a conversation.

There was some contact, but never any real reciprocation.

Some days I want to cry, hold onto him, and just say:

“I love you.”

Or maybe something even simpler:

“Can you please show me a little attention?”

But how do you tell someone all of that when a real conversation between the two of you never even existed?

How do you grieve a connection that never really began?

A love story… no, my imagination.
Maybe my crush, maybe just a fantasy — whatever it is, let destiny decide my story.

A few days back, I organized a dental camp in a company.
There, I met one of the employees.

A guy who spoke maturely — neat, calm, collected.
Meanwhile, me… an idiot stressed about managing the camp.

At that time, I never really noticed his calmness.
I was too busy handling things and reading all the characters around me.

But after the camp ended, I kept rewinding little moments in my head.
And eventually, I felt a spark.

Stalked him on Instagram and found his bio:
“Naturally Aspirated Petrolhead.”

And somehow my brain immediately gave him fictional-character energy.

So yes… maybe living inside my imagination would’ve been easier.

I texted him on WhatsApp thanking him, hoping the conversation would slowly grow.
But the “petrolhead” never replied.

And honestly, I don’t know what destiny has planned for me.
A part of me still hopes the universe gives me this guy in full Peter Kavinsky vibe.

Maybe I dream too much.

But dreams are soothing too…
unless and until they slowly turn into expectations.

Have you ever been in a situation where you overthink everything because it feels like something probably isn’t meant for you…

…but a part of you still hopes it is because life would feel so beautiful if it happened?

Recently I met a guy I’ve named “Petrolhead” (look at my previous post for the reason 😭).

I mean, I would genuinely love to be in a relationship with him.

But most of my interactions with him exist only in my dreams and imagination.

Maybe I’m just hoping destiny somehow ties our lives together.

I don’t even know if this is a love story, a psychological experiment, or just destiny laughing at me.
I’m a dental student and I somehow always end up turning my emotional situations into cinematic scenes inside my head.
Recently I started liking this petrolhead guy. Calling him “petrolhead” because his Instagram bio literally says “Naturally Aspirated Petrolhead” (yes, accidental stalking happened). Calm energy. Mature. The type of person who feels emotionally stable when your own life feels slightly chaotic.
The problem?
Nothing actually happened between us.
Most of the relationship exists between me, my thoughts, and the universe.
One day my friend was crying over her own love problems and I was sitting there acting philosophical saying things like, “If something is meant for you, it will reach you no matter what.”
Then suddenly my dramatic brain decided this was the perfect moment to TEST destiny.
So I took my friend’s phone and called him.
I genuinely didn’t think he would pick up because I had called him before and this man NEVER picks up.
But he did.
I immediately cut the call in shock.
Then it got worse.
He called back.
At this point my soul temporarily left my body because WHAT are the odds?
I panicked and asked my friend to pick up while I pretended to stay calm. She instantly invented the most improvised explanation ever and told him it was a “patient number mismatch.”
Honestly, the excuse somehow worked because I’m in dentistry and patient calls are normal.
Then my friend explained that she accidentally took the number from my phone and called the wrong person. Meanwhile, I was internally dying because the truth was that I had literally been admiring this man’s phone number in my contact list and accidentally called him and cut the call.
The funniest part?
This man actually called back.
So now I’m sitting here wondering if this is:
a sign from the universe,
a coincidence,
or proof that I seriously need more sleep.
I’ve already given enough opportunities for conversation to happen naturally. So now I’ve decided that if he’s meant to enter my life, he’ll come toward me himself.
Still… a part of me hopes he does.
And honestly, if this man never talks to me again, at least the story is hilarious.