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Love, I learned, is the act of falling, over and over again, for the same person. Falling for them through the changes they needed to undergo to become the person they had buried beneath the façade and all the versions of themselves they had created just to belong. There are parts of us we learn to hide because they do not seem to fit into the world we have been given. We become familiar with a life that still feels strangely foreign, learning its language, its rules, its expectations, while quietly wondering where we are supposed to put the pieces of ourselves that seem so out of place. And then, somehow, you find your person. And you begin to realize that perhaps you were asking to fit into the wrong world, when all along, you were simply waiting to find a world where you did not have to. Because with them, the things you once thought were too much begin to feel ordinary. When you look at their world, you recognize pieces of your own. You show them the things you thought no one would understand, and somehow, they already do. As though they have been holding space for you without even knowing your name. And maybe that is one of the strangest, gentlest things about love. You do not always find someone who completes your world. Sometimes, you find someone who has been unknowingly making room for you in theirs, long before either of you knew you would meet. Perhaps love was never meant to offer certainty. It was always an invitation to the unpredictable, a door opening into a life neither of you could fully see yet. Perhaps love is not a promise that we will never be lonely or hurt again. And perhaps that is why it asks us to be brave. Because you will keep changing. So will they. And you will have to meet each other again and again, in every new version, learning each other, making room, and falling all over again. Together. M. | August 2026

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Because I am angry. I am angry that their fears mattered enough to be protected, while my pain became an inconvenience to be managed. Angry that their wounds were given patience, their silences were given reasons, their struggles were given room to exist, while mine somehow became something I was expected to heal from, or simply get over. And for once, I want to be allowed to see it only from my side. To say, they hurt me. Without immediately following it with all the reasons why they did. But I can't. That is the part that makes this so much harder. Because even while I am angry, I can see the fear beneath their actions. I can understand the things they were trying to protect, the wounds that made them retreat, the parts of them that were simply trying to process and move on in the only way they knew how. And somehow, understanding does not make the hurt any smaller. It only makes it heavier. Because now I am carrying both. My anger, and my empathy. My pain, and the reasons behind theirs. The part of me that wants to scream, “what about me?” And the part that keeps whispering, “but maybe they were hurting too.” So I remain caught between what I feel and what I understand. I cannot fully condemn them because I know pain can make people act from places they barely understand themselves. But understanding where they came from does not mean the hurt simply disappears. And perhaps that is what has been eating away at whatever sanity I have left. Not the anger itself. But the constant negotiation with it. M. | August 2026

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I wish I could hold on to this feeling, to the safety I feel whenever we are together. To trust that this time, I am truly safe. I wish I could simply lay this grief down, loosen its grip around my heart, and finally tear down the walls I have spent years building. But every morning, I wake as though my mind has been quietly rearranged while I slept. I find myself standing in the same familiar place where everything once fell apart, watching my hands build wall after wall before the day has even begun. The warmth I felt the night before slips somewhere beyond my reach, replaced by a numbness that feels older than reason itself. It is an incredibly cruel cycle because every morning, I have to find my way back to you again. Still, as the day goes on, the walls begin to soften. Again. We talk. We laugh. I remember how deeply I love you, and for a while, the fear loosens its grip. I believe we will be okay. I believe in us. Then morning comes, and it is as though none of it happened. The numbness returns before anything has gone wrong. The trust I held so easily the day before feels distant again. I question my heart, my feelings, even my desire to stay, as though love itself has been erased overnight. And so I spend another day searching for what I know I felt only hours before. Perhaps that is what makes it so exhausting. Not because I keep falling out of love, but because I keep waking up inside an older version of myself, one that still believes walls are safer than open doors, one that has not yet learned that love can remain, even after sleep. It feels like grieving and relearning safety over and over, every single day. More than anything, I wish I could wake up and still remember the peace I felt the night before. To trust that I do not have to earn safety from the beginning each morning. To believe that I no longer have to rebuild the walls just to survive another day. M. | the walls I wake up with August 2026

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“So long, dear July. May we meet again with both of us finally being soft with each other.” Life, despite everything, has carried me here, to another August. Through unfinished thoughts and unanswered questions, sadness that still sits beside me, and hopes that have somehow refused to leave, I bade July farewell. Perhaps every goodbye leaves behind a quieter version of ourselves. One that has learned to love with more caution than before. And I think somewhere along the way, we become careful with our hope. We stop looking up when the sky changes colour. We stop noticing the shape of the clouds. We stop believing that beautiful things can happen on an ordinary Tuesday. Perhaps that is the quiet tragedy of growing older. Not the passing of time. But the slow disappearance of wonder. I don't know what this month will bring. So perhaps we should leave a little room for the unexpected. To believe that life still has stories we have not heard and waiting to be explored. To have faith that we can change the way we see ourselves. That gentle things could happen on days we had already decided would be difficult. And if none of those things happen... Then let us remind ourselves that we are still capable of finding beauty in small, ordinary things. In places we have walked past a hundred times before. In a morning that descended gently through our window. In an evening sky washed in shades of pink and blue. In the quiet company of home and those we love, who never ask us to be anything other than present. And to believe that maybe wonder was never something the world withheld from us. Maybe it was simply waiting for us to look up and give ourselves a chance again. M. 1 August 2026

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Life felt blurred for so long. And when it finally began to come into focus, I found myself struggling to keep still in a world that suddenly felt too bright, too loud, and somehow still too lonely. I wish things could be a little easier. But then I wonder, how easy do I really want it to be? People tell me I do not lack anything. From the outside, everything seems to be in order. The things I need to take care of are taken care of. My responsibilities are never left undone. The people I love are still within reach. I have everything, right? Then why do I still cry at night? Why does my heart still ache from wounds I thought had already healed? Why do I still carry the weight of all the words I never said, the feelings I never shared, and the battles I quietly fought alone? And then it hits me. I am not okay. Maybe I was never truly healed despite all the efforts I made to stay afloat. Maybe I was not recovering. Maybe I was only surviving. M. July 2026

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I wandered among ghosts for a long time, chasing the pale reflections of things that had never touched my hands. I loved the moonlight because it asked nothing of me. I loved the stars because they belonged to no one. There was comfort in things that remained distant. In things that could be admired without ever being held. Dreams were gentle companions, beautiful because they could never leave me. Then, like morning, you came. Softly. Inevitable. Turning ordinary things golden without forcing them to change. The cup beside me. The sound of rain. The silence between two breaths. And I’m no longer in love with dreams. M. July 2026

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