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You don’t have to agree with me, but to me, love is a language you only learn when you are with someone. And sometimes, you learn it too late, or not in the same way they do. Not everyone understands love in the same language. Some of us are desperate to hear it said out loud, some are quietly waiting for presence that doesn’t leave, some are softened by small, almost invisible gestures that say “I noticed you,” and some are just trying to believe that staying, even on the hardest days, is its own kind of love. And we try. God, we try. We give love in the way we know how to give it, and we wait for it to be received the way we meant it. But it doesn’t always land there. Sometimes it falls into silence. Sometimes it gets lost in translation. Sometimes it sits right in front of someone’s heart and still doesn’t feel like love to them. To love someone is to learn the shape of their heart; while hoping they learn the shape of yours too. For love is not measured by how much we pour out of ourselves. It is measured by what reaches the other person, what actually stays inside them and makes them feel held. We can give everything we have. We can place entire skies into someone’s hands, offer them devotion that feels endless, and still somehow fail to touch the parts of them that were quietly waiting for something softer, something slower, something more familiar to their language of being loved. And sometimes, love was real all along. But two people kept missing each other anyway, speaking in languages their hearts had not yet learned to understand. M. | May 2026

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If I loved you, you would become the way I remember the world, like warmth that lingers on skin long after the sun has set. You would live in my words, in the trembling places between lines, in the ache and the soft ones that try to heal. To be loved by me is to be everywhere without ever trying to be. You would exist in the quiet pauses I leave between thoughts, in the sentences I almost say but let fall into silence instead. Not because I choose to keep you there, but because once you are in me, you spill into everything I create, like something that has learned my shape and refuses to forget it. There will be no version of my creations that does not carry you. Even when time loosens its hold on us, you remain in my words, not just as memory, but as the essence itself, something that rewrites everything I touch. And even when I am no longer here to write, even when you are no longer there to read, you linger like a story the world keeps telling without us. M. | muse & ink May 2026

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Dear May, You are here, let’s sit and talk for a while. I don’t need answers right now, only a place to pour these thoughts. Let every uncertain path feel a little less heavy to walk, even when we cannot see where it leads or how long it will last. When the road feels unfamiliar and the weight of not knowing settles in, remind us we can, and why we must keep going. Let peace find us, even in places we were never meant to stay, and may we leave them a little safer than we found them. Even when nothing feels permanent enough to hold onto, in the in-between, in the unfinished, in the spaces that do not yet make sense, let there be moments of quiet that steady us. Teach us that uncertainty does not always mean danger, that being in-between is still a kind of arrival. Let us stop treating every unclear step as something we must fix immediately, and trust that we will find our way, even if it takes time. And when the path feels too much, too unclear, too heavy, let there be something within us that still chooses to take the next step anyway, carrying what we can, leaving what we must, reminding us that we have made it through before, that the home ahead is waiting with softer hands. M. | May in little steps May 2026

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April is on its last page. The past keeps finding its way back to me every April, like it knows exactly when I am most open, most unguarded. A lot has happened. So much that it feels like this single month has both broken me down and asked me to grow at the same time. As if I had to shrink first, to make space for something new. My emotions have been louder this month. Unavoidable. Unignorable. They sit with me, follow me, ask to be felt in ways I can no longer delay. And my mind, restless as ever, keeps circling the same question: “Who am I right now?” Not who I used to be, not who I am trying to become, but who I am in this very moment, stripped of everything familiar. And today, it felt like the question shifted. Something simple, yet impossibly difficult. “What do I want right now?” Not what I once wanted, not what I hope for in some distant future, but what I need, here, as I am. This month has wrung me dry. It has taken from me, demanded from me, stretched me in ways I did not think I could endure. And yet, somewhere in all of this, I found something unexpected. A quiet kind of love. A steady kind of support. From a force I did not even know existed, unseen, but undeniably there. March taught me how to let go. April showed me what it costs. And now I stand here, somewhere between emptiness and understanding, carrying both what I lost and what stayed— hoping that May will be gentle with me. As I learn, slowly and carefully, how to live with myself again. M. | last page 30 April 2026

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At some point, I stopped wanting to work things out with you. Not because I stopped loving you, but because holding something that kept breaking in my hands hurt too much. I stopped looking for ways to fix us, stopped believing there was a version of this that didn’t end the way everything does, inevitably, whether we are ready or not. So I told you what I dreaded, the same thing I kept repeating to myself, hoping it would feel less heavy each time, that we needed to move on and try to heal, whatever that was supposed to mean. But that word was never gentle between us. It cuts. How am I supposed to heal from something that still feels like the truest thing I have ever known? How are you supposed to? I don’t think we will. Perhaps the people who come after us will love us more than we will ever be able to love them. Not because they are lacking, but because we have already given the deepest parts of ourselves to each other. What’s left will still be love, but it will not be the same. It will hesitate. It will remember. And maybe this is the part we could never move on from, we don’t want to heal from each other. We only ever wanted to heal with each other. M. | rupture April 2026

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Maybe I’d write the truths I am scared to admit. That I miss people who broke me, as if my memory has learned to love them more gently than they ever loved me. My love is ferocious, and it does not end cleanly; it frays and echoes and leaves fingerprints on places I can’t wash, no matter how hard I try. My healing is messy and looping, like a wound I keep touching just to see if it still hurts. My mind is a constant maze with dead ends, and my heart is a room of mirrors I avoid because I already know what they will show me. I could write that I don’t need to be chosen. For who needs connection, when it is bound to be severed anyway, yet there is still a part of me, small and persistent, that waits for someone to look at me and decide I am worth staying for. And still, I write it all softly, as if I am holding shards of glass in a trembling palm, learning how to keep them without letting them fall, without hurting me more. This is what I carry. It cuts, it weighs, it stays. M. | truths & scars April 2026

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While going through work photos for a presentation, I found myself looking at familiar faces, colleagues, teams, friends, how easily everyone smiled for the camera, how willingly they were remembered. And I noticed something. I am rarely in them. Even though I was there for almost all of it, I exist somewhere behind the lens or just outside the frame. Even in my personal life, I have very few photos of myself. Sometimes I tell myself I will regret it one day, for not having memories to hold onto, but does remembering truly need proof? So, I keep choosing not to be in them. I do not even keep my childhood photos. I do not remember seeing many, though I know my parents took them. Even then, it always felt easier to exist behind moments rather than inside them. But I do take photos, just not of myself. I capture life as it passes, places, fleeting moments, the feeling of a day before it disappears. Maybe I am just a private person, and perhaps I have always been this way. I do not think I want to leave a memory behind. When I am gone, there will be nothing to look back on, nothing to hold, and maybe that is the point. And as time passes, who will remember we were here at all? And yet, I do not know if that thought comforts me or quietly breaks something in me. M. | unframed April 2026

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