u/MembershipSeparate17

I keep catching myself thinking about kissing you again.

There’s something about you that stays with me long after we’ve said goodbye. I think you’re incredibly beautiful, but it’s so much more than that. You’re a phenomenal woman. You have this confidence, this warmth, and this goofy side that makes it so easy to smile around you.

I have to admit something, though. I get anxious when I’m around you. Not because you’ve ever made me feel uncomfortable, but because I genuinely like you. I find myself overthinking what to say, wondering if I’m talking too much or not enough, and hoping I don’t make a fool of myself.

It’s funny because I’m usually a goofball, but around you my brain forgets how to cooperate.

Even with those nerves, I like who I am when I’m with you. You make me laugh, you make me feel seen, and you make it easy to enjoy the moment.

And yes… I really want to kiss you again.

I know you probably see me as someone who is quiet and a little uncomfortable at times. The truth is, you’re not wrong. Getting back out into the world and trying to enjoy myself again has been strange for me. There are moments where I still overthink everything, and there are moments where I’m just trying to figure out how to be myself again.

So, thank you.

Thank you for being kind and gentle with me. You never make me feel like I need to be anyone other than who I am. You give me the space to settle into the moment, and I appreciate that more than you probably realize.

I like who I am when I’m around you. You have this goofy energy that somehow matches mine, and even though I can’t dance to save my life, you somehow make me want to laugh instead of worrying about looking silly. Your confidence is contagious, and the way you giggle at the little things makes it impossible not to smile.
Thank you for the last time we hung out. I genuinely enjoyed every minute of it. There wasn’t any pressure or expectation. It was just easy, and that meant a lot to me.

I’m still learning how to let people in again. After everything I’ve been through, I’ve realized that my pace is incredibly slow. I need time, patience, and consistency more than anything else.
Thank you for respecting that without making me feel guilty for it.

I don’t know where any of this goes, and I’m not trying to rush it. For now, I’m just grateful that I get to know someone who makes me laugh, makes me feel comfortable, and reminds me that it’s okay to enjoy someone’s company again.

Today I had another therapy session, and it gave me a lot to think about.

My therapist was incredibly direct with me. She told me that, based on everything we’ve worked through together, I am not the person you said I was. Hearing that was difficult because for so long I carried those words as if they were facts. I questioned myself over and over, wondering if maybe you were right.

She shared something that made me stop and think. She suggested that sometimes, in relationships, we become mirrors for one another. She believes that I reflected parts of you that were painful to look at, and that those reflections may have felt easier to reject than to face. Whether that’s completely true or not, it gave me a different way of looking at what happened between us.

At the same time, I realized I had my own mirror to face.

When I looked at you, I saw a little girl who never felt loved enough. I saw someone who carried hurt long before I ever entered her life. I wanted so badly to love those broken pieces, believing that if I loved hard enough, maybe they would finally feel safe. I understand now that no amount of love from another person can heal wounds that someone isn’t ready or able to heal themselves.

That realization doesn’t erase my own responsibility. I know I brought my own struggles into our relationship too. I know I tried to fix things that weren’t mine to fix, and somewhere along the way I lost pieces of myself trying to carry both of our pain.

Therapy isn’t about proving one of us was right and the other was wrong. It’s about learning why we became who we became and how those parts collided. For the first time in a long time, I’m beginning to separate who I truly am from the version of myself I believed after everything fell apart.

I don’t write this to change your mind or ask you to see me differently. I write it because I’m finally learning to see myself differently.

I hope one day we both find peace with the mirrors we were forced to look into. I hope we both continue healing not because of each other, but because we deserve to live without carrying the weight of old wounds.

I’m learning that healing isn’t about rewriting the past. It’s about no longer letting the past decide who I am.

For the first time in a long time, I’m getting a small glimpse into a life I’ve only imagined.

I’m staying at a friend’s place in the city, and I told myself it was just a visit. Just a change of scenery. But somewhere between walking unfamiliar streets, grabbing coffee around the corner, hearing the sounds of traffic instead of silence, and watching people live their lives, I started asking myself a question.

What if this could be home?

I’ve always loved the idea of the Sex and the City lifestyle, but not because of the fashion, the expensive apartments, or the picture-perfect moments. What drew me in was the feeling of possibility. A life where every day holds something new. Where you can reinvent yourself without asking permission. Where independence isn’t lonely, it feels empowering.

This week has felt like I’m trying that life on for size.
I’m realizing how much I enjoy being able to walk somewhere instead of driving everywhere. I like that there’s always something happening, whether it’s a little café, a bookstore, live music, or people simply enjoying the evening. There’s an energy here that makes me feel awake.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been missing.
The last year has changed me in ways I never expected. It taught me how to survive heartbreak, how to find peace in solitude, and how to rebuild myself from the ground up. I became comfortable with the quiet.

Now I’m wondering if I’m ready to trade some of that quiet for a little excitement.

This isn’t about running away from where I am. It’s about running toward a version of myself I’ve been curious about for a long time.

Maybe this is just a visit.

Maybe it’s the beginning of something much bigger.

Today, my therapist asked me a question that hit harder than I expected.

“What made you fall in love with her? Was it because she was pretty? What made her so special compared to everyone else?”

I sat there for a moment because the answer had never really changed.

It wasn’t because she was beautiful.
She was beautiful, yes. Mesmerizing, actually.

I still remember the first time I saw her step off that elevator. It felt like time stopped. In my mind, it looked as if a goddess was walking toward me with a white halo surrounding her. It was one of those moments you never forget.

But that isn’t why I fell in love with her.

I fell in love with her mind.

I fell in love with the little things most people probably never noticed. Her tiny quirks. The way she could spend twenty minutes talking about a tree, a plant, or even a snail and somehow make me care about it too. I loved how her curiosity made ordinary things feel extraordinary.

She was creativity in human form.

I still smile when I think about the little green frog with the giant toes or the solar system spread across the coffee table. Her imagination had no limits. She could look at something ordinary and turn it into something meaningful.

She had so much love to give and never asked for much in return, only to be loved back.

She was peace in the middle of chaos.

She was determined, almost stubborn at times.

Once she believed in something, she refused to quit, even when the path was difficult or even wrong. She kept moving forward.

She was perfection in all the ways she could never see in herself.

She had this incredible ability to take something complicated and somehow make it simple, beautiful, and understandable. That was one of the things I admired most about her.

Then my therapist asked me what happened toward the end.

I told her that this is only my perspective. She may remember it differently, and that’s okay.

From where I stood, she walked through one of the darkest seasons of her life. I stayed for all of it. I gave everything I had trying to help her see herself the way I saw her. I broke myself mentally holding up a mirror, hoping one day she would recognize the incredible person staring back at her.

Maybe I loved so deeply that I forgot to save a little of myself.

Maybe that’s where we were both lost.

I don’t regret loving her.

I don’t regret seeing the light in someone who couldn’t see it themselves. And even now, after everything, I know one truth that has never changed.

I will love her for the rest of my life.

Not because I expect her to come back.

Not because I’m waiting.

But because some people leave fingerprints on your soul that time simply cannot erase.

Maybe that’s my karma.

To always carry a love that changed me, even if it was never meant to stay.

Last night, I found myself wandering through a place filled with people. There were so many faces, so much movement, so much noise. The music was deafening, echoing through every corner, yet somehow it all felt distant. It was as if I was searching for something… or rather, someone.
I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew who I hoped to find.

Then I saw you.

You weren’t looking for anyone. You were simply dancing, completely lost in the music, smiling in a way that made everything else around you disappear. The crowd faded. The noise faded. It was just you.

Even in a dream, I was still in awe of you.
I stood there, frozen. I didn’t walk over. I didn’t interrupt your moment. I just watched, wondering what it would feel like to be brave enough to take those few steps toward you.

Then, through all the music and all the chaos, I heard a voice.

“Come dance with me.”

Everything stopped.

Before I could move, before I could answer, before I could find out what happened next…

I woke up.

I’ve been thinking about that dream ever since.

Maybe it was just my subconscious playing tricks on me. Or maybe it was a reminder that sometimes the things we long for aren’t asking us to have all the answers. Maybe they’re simply asking us to stop standing on the sidelines.

I don’t know if that voice was yours.
But I’d like to think it was.

And if dreams are where our hearts tell the truth, then maybe mine has been trying to tell me all along that sometimes the most beautiful moments begin with four simple words.

Over the last year, I’ve been pretty quiet about what has really been going on behind the scenes.

It’s been one of the hardest years of my life mentally and emotionally. Along the way, I found out that I have Bipolar II. In some ways, having a diagnosis answered questions I had been asking myself for years. In other ways, it opened the door to a whole new set of challenges that I never expected.

I’m learning that some days my emotions feel bigger than I want them to. Sometimes my thoughts race faster than I can slow them down. The smallest things can leave me feeling overwhelmed or overstimulated, and it’s frustrating because I know it doesn’t always make sense to anyone else.

I’ve been going to therapy. I’ve been doing behavioral counseling. I’m putting in the work every single week because I want to understand my mind instead of fighting against it.

I’ve also started noticing patterns. When I’m completely exhausted, when I drink, or when everything around me gets painfully quiet, the symptoms seem to get louder. It’s still something I’m learning to navigate, and some days are much harder than others.

I hate feeling like I can’t always control my emotions or my thoughts. That’s probably the hardest part. But I’m also learning that healing isn’t about pretending those struggles don’t exist. It’s about recognizing them, asking for help, and continuing to move forward anyway.

I’m not sharing this because I want sympathy. I’m sharing it because mental health isn’t always visible, and there are probably people quietly fighting battles that no one else can see.

If you’re one of those people, I hope you know you’re not alone.

Lately, I’ve realized that what I miss isn’t love in the way most people think of it.

I don’t miss the butterflies. I don’t miss the late night flirting. I don’t even miss the physical side of being close to someone.

I miss the connection that felt like home.
The kind of connection where silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Where my mind finally stopped racing because someone else’s presence made the world feel a little quieter. Where I didn’t have to explain every thought or defend every emotion.

They simply understood.

There was something about that kind of peace that I haven’t found again.

People often assume loneliness is about wanting someone beside you. For me, it’s about missing the feeling of my brain finally resting. The constant noise inside would soften. The anxiety would loosen its grip. I could sit in complete silence, and somehow it didn’t feel empty.

It felt safe.

I don’t miss having someone to hold my hand.

I miss having someone who held space for my mind.
Someone who made the world slow down for a while. Someone who reminded me that quiet didn’t always have to be lonely.

Maybe that’s what home has always been.

Not a place.

Not a person.

But the rare feeling that, for a little while, your heart can stop searching and your mind can finally be still.
I don’t know if I’ll ever find that connection again.
But if I do, I hope I recognize it, not because it makes my heart race, but because it gives my soul permission to rest.

Until then, I’ll keep learning to become a little more like home for myself.

Everywhere I travel to I get something for you still… I always buy a piece of art. Even if you’re not here that’s what I do.

Tomorrow marks one year.

A year ago, I never would have imagined I would be writing these words and genuinely meaning them, but to be honest, I am okay.

Not perfect. Not completely healed. Not untouched by everything that happened. But okay.
For a long time, I thought I would always measure my life by what I had lost. I thought every milestone would be overshadowed by the memories, the questions, and the future I once imagined. Instead, something unexpected happened.

Life kept moving.

I started saying yes to things I never would have before. I traveled. I explored new places. I created memories that belonged only to me. Opportunities appeared that I might never have taken if I had stayed where I was. I met incredible people who showed up for me, cared about me, and reminded me that love comes in many forms not just romantic love.

Looking back, I realize that if everything had stayed the same, I may never have found them. I may never have discovered parts of myself that were waiting to be uncovered.

The truth is, I enjoy my life now.

I enjoy the freedom to make my own decisions. I enjoy waking up and not wondering what someone else is thinking. I enjoy the quiet. I enjoy the peace.
And maybe that’s the biggest surprise of all.

The silence that once felt unbearable has become comforting. The independence that once felt lonely has become empowering. I’ve learned that being alone and being lonely are not the same thing.

So, just to put it out there, I don’t want anyone right now.

I’m not searching. I’m not waiting. I’m not trying to fill a space.

I’m content.

For the first time in a long time, I am happy building a life that belongs entirely to me. A life filled with friendships, adventures, laughter, and the freedom to grow at my own pace.

A year later, I don’t look back with anger. I don’t look back with regret. I simply look back and acknowledge that what happened changed me.

Some chapters are meant to end so new ones can begin.

Tomorrow marks one year, and instead of mourning what was lost, I’m grateful for what I found along the way.

Most importantly, I found myself.
And that’s enough.

June has always been a difficult month for me, and I imagine it is for you too.

It’s strange how one month can hold so much. This was the month we met, the month that started a chapter neither of us could have predicted. It holds memories of excitement, laughter, late conversations, and all the small moments that slowly became something important.

But it is also the month everything fell apart.

Sometimes I find myself wishing you were here. Not because I need you to be, but because there are moments that still remind me of you. A song, a memory, a random thought that appears out of nowhere. There are days when I wonder what life would have looked like if things had gone differently.

Then there are other days.

Days when the silence doesn’t hurt. Days when I enjoy my own company. Days when I realize how much I’ve grown through all of this. I’ve learned how to stand on my own, how to be independent, and how to find peace in places that once felt empty. The quiet that used to feel lonely now feels familiar.

The truth is, there is a lot going through my head this month. Memories of where we began and memories of where we ended. Gratitude for what we shared and sadness for what we lost. Some days those feelings exist side by side.

I don’t carry anger anymore. Time has a way of softening the sharp edges of things. What remains are the lessons, the memories, and the hope that wherever life takes you, you find happiness and peace.

I don’t know what the future holds, and maybe that’s okay.

What I do know is that I will always be grateful for the part of my story that you were. And no matter how much time passes, I hope you know that if you ever truly needed me, my door would remain open. Not because I’m waiting, but because I will always care about the person you are.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, and maybe that’s why it’s easier to write.

Last night, you looked absolutely stunning.

It wasn’t just what you were wearing or how you had your hair done. It was the way you carried yourself, the way your smile seemed effortless, and how your presence somehow made every room feel a little brighter. I tried not to stare, but I caught myself doing it anyway. More than once.

What gets me the most, though, is the way you look at me.

You probably don’t think twice about it. Maybe it’s just the way you are. But every time your eyes meet mine, something inside me completely falls apart. For a moment, all the noise in my head disappears. The stress, the worries, the weight I’ve been carrying—they all fade into the background. It’s just you and that look that somehow makes me feel seen.

And I don’t think you’ll ever know that.

You’ll never know how I replay conversations after they’re over or how I find myself smiling when your name pops up on my phone. You’ll never know how I look forward to seeing you, even if it’s only for a few minutes. You’ll never know how effortlessly you’ve become one of my favorite parts of the day.

The truth is, I’ve become really good at keeping things to myself.

So I’ll laugh, make jokes, and act like everything is normal. I’ll continue being your friend because that’s something I genuinely treasure. But hidden somewhere between every conversation and every shared moment is a secret I’ll probably keep for a while longer:

I have the biggest crush on you.

And every time you look at me the way you do, I melt a little more inside.

Maybe that’s enough for now.

Maybe some feelings don’t need to be spoken out loud to be real.

But if there ever comes a day when you wonder whether someone saw how beautiful you were, not just last night but every day they knew you, I hope somehow you find this answer:

I did.

I don’t know what lesson you were trying to teach me from June 2025 to June 2026, but I can honestly say it has been one of the hardest years of my life.

It started with losing someone I loved. Not the kind of loss that comes with death, where there is a final goodbye and a place to grieve. This was different. They are still somewhere in the world, still breathing, still living their life, but no longer part of mine. In some ways, that kind of loss feels even stranger. There is no funeral, no closure, just an empty space where someone used to be.

That loss changed me. It made me stop looking for love. It made me question whether I even wanted it anymore. When something you believed in so deeply slips through your hands, it becomes difficult to imagine opening your heart again. What once felt exciting now feels exhausting. What once felt hopeful now feels uncertain.

Then came the loss of my dog.

My little pinto bean.

The tiny soul who never cared what kind of day I was having. The one who greeted me with joy even when I had none left for myself. The one who loved me without conditions, expectations, or complications.

Bean was comfort during the hardest nights and happiness during the ordinary days. Losing that kind of love leaves a silence that words struggle to describe. The house feels different. The world feels different. There are moments when I still expect to see those familiar eyes looking up at me or hear the sound of little paws coming around the corner.

And through all of it, I have kept going.

Not because I wanted to. Not because it was easy. But because there was no other choice.

Some days I felt strong. Most days I felt tired. There were moments when it seemed like every time I found my footing, life found another way to knock me down. I kept asking myself how much one person was supposed to carry before it became too much.

Yet here I am.

One year later.

Not healed. Not whole. Not completely okay.

But still here.

So if this was your lesson, Karma, I hope you understand that I have learned enough. I have learned what heartbreak feels like. I have learned what grief feels like. I have learned what it means to lose both a person I loved and a little companion who gave me unconditional love every day.

What I would like now is a little peace.

A little kindness.

A little room to breathe.

Because this year has taken more from me than I ever expected to lose.

And while I cannot change what happened, I hope the next chapter carries less pain and more reasons to smile.

For Bean.
For the love I lost.
For the person I am still trying to become after all of it.

Sincerely,
Someone who has carried enough for one year.

I saw you coming again and felt that familiar weight settle in my chest.

Most people greet you with sunshine, long evenings, and the promise of summer. They talk about vacations, cookouts, and all the beautiful things your days bring. But when I see you on the calendar, I remember.

You hold too much hurt.

You carry memories I never asked you to keep. You carry conversations that ended too soon, dreams that never got the chance to grow, and the silence that followed when everything changed. Every warm breeze seems to whisper a reminder of what was lost.

A year has passed.

People say time heals. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. What I know is that I survived it. I made it through every difficult morning, every sleepless night, every moment when the memories hit without warning. I kept moving forward even when I wasn’t sure where I was going.

One year later, I’m still just okay.

Not great. Not completely healed. Not the person I was before.

Just okay.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because okay means I’m still here.

Okay means I still get up and face the day.

Okay means the pain didn’t win.

There are still moments when your name appears on the calendar and my heart sinks. There are still things I wish had turned out differently. There are still questions that never found answers.

But there is also something else now.

Strength.

The kind that isn’t loud or impressive. The kind that comes from carrying something heavy for so long that you learn how to walk with it.

So, Dear June, I don’t have to like you. I don’t have to welcome you with open arms. You will always remind me of things that hurt.

But I will face you anyway.

I faced you last year broken and uncertain.

I face you this year standing.

And for now, standing is enough.

— still just okay

I think it’s funny
how you just appear in my head
like some late-night radio station
cutting through static.

No warning.
No reason.
Just a sudden
“hello, I’m here.”

And there you are again.

Sometimes it happens in silence,
sometimes while I’m driving,
sometimes while the world is loud enough
to drown out every other thought.

But not you.

I still remember watching you play that gig,
how the room seemed smaller
because all my attention
kept orbiting around you.

You looked so alive up there,
like music belonged in your hands
the same way stars belong to the night.

And me?
I was standing there smiling so hard
my cheeks started to hurt,
trying to act normal
while my heart was basically screaming.

It’s ridiculous, honestly.

How one person
can randomly cross your mind
and suddenly your whole mood softens.

Like my brain opens a door
just long enough for you to lean in and say,

“Hey.
Don’t forget about me.”

Your smile is infectious,
the kind that lingers in my mind
long after you are gone.
It catches me off guard every time,
turning my thoughts into static
and my confidence into silence.

I get nervous around you
in ways I cannot explain.
My hands forget where to rest,
my words tangle together,
and suddenly I am this shy version of myself
I barely recognize.

I used to think flirting was easy,
until you.
Now even the simplest things
feel impossible to say.
I cannot tell if my heart is racing
or if the room just gets smaller
every time you look at me.

I want to ask you to dinner.
I want to sit across from you
and learn every little thing
that makes you smile the way you do.
But fear keeps catching in my throat,
turning confidence into hesitation
before the words can ever leave my mouth.

So instead,
I stay quiet
while my heart loudly admits
everything I am too nervous to say.

There is just something about her
that turns the worst days quiet.
Like my mind forgets how to ache
for a little while
just because she exists beside me.

She smiles and suddenly
the weight on my chest loosens.
The world stops feeling so sharp.
Even my laugh sounds different
around her.

I catch myself grinning
for no reason at all,
like an idiot replaying small moments
she probably doesn’t even remember.
The way she says my name.
The way her eyes soften
when she looks at me.
The way being near her
feels like sunlight through a window
after weeks of rain.

And I don’t know how to explain it properly.
How someone can walk into your life
and make your heart feel lighter
without even trying.

But there is just something about her.
Something that makes me smile so big
it feels impossible to hide.

Since the day you said goodbye,
it feels like a wire inside me was cut clean through.
No contact.
No warmth.
No trace of the person
who once knew every corner of me.

You disconnected from me completely,
and I understand why.

I just needed you to know
that I was wrong.

Wrong for raising my voice
when you deserved gentleness.

Wrong for not supporting you
when your world felt heavy.

Wrong for shutting down
and sitting in silence
instead of communicating with you honestly.

Wrong for hearing your words
without truly understanding the pain behind them.

Wrong for not listening
when all you wanted
was to feel seen by me.

I carry those truths every day now.

Life has felt like hell lately,
the kind that changes a person from the inside out.
And therapy has been forcing me
to sit face to face
with the parts of myself I used to avoid.

It hurts.
But I am trying.

Trying to become someone
who communicates instead of disappearing emotionally.
Someone who listens before reacting.
Someone who loves without turning pain into distance.

I know apologies do not rebuild trust.
I know growth does not erase damage.
And maybe I became self-aware
only after losing the person
I should have protected better.

But even with all this silence between us,
I hope you find peace in your life.
I hope your heart feels lighter now.

And if nothing else,
I hope someday you believe me
when I say that losing you
forced me to finally understand myself.

I want you to know this

not as a warning

not as a wound

but as something steady I’ve learned to hold

I’ve been alone for almost a year now

and the silence didn’t swallow me

It softened

It shaped itself into something I could sit with

There’s no ache to reach for someone

no restless pull in my chest

searching for hands that aren’t mine

The absence isn’t empty

it’s quiet in a way that finally makes sense

I used to think connection was survival

like air, like water

something I’d suffocate without

But I’ve been breathing just fine

in rooms where it’s only me

And for the first time

when I catch my reflection

it doesn’t feel like a stranger passing through

It feels like someone who stayed

I see my shadow in the mirror now

not something to outrun

not something to hide behind someone else’s light

but something that belongs to me

There’s a strange kind of peace in this

not loud, not triumphant

just honest

I’m not waiting

I’m not searching

I’m not missing anything

I’m here

alone, yes

but not lonely

And for once in my life

that feels like enough