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I don't need to have all the answers, at least not right now. I just want to remember us, the way we can hurt, then soften; lose our way, then somehow find each other again. I still want your hand in mine, your silence beside me, and that little moment when you softly say, “I love you,” and somehow the distance between us feels smaller. So when the sun is down, and the night gets heavy, I’d still choose us. Even with all the uncertainties and the hurting in my heart, I’d still find my way back to you, the same you I miss even when you’re close. M. | October 2026

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I wonder who remembers the small version of me. The little girl I was, before the world became complicated. I wonder if someone still remembers the way I used to run, the things I was afraid of, the stories I made up from my imaginations, the questions I asked without worrying whether they made sense. Maybe someone still remembers the little habits I have completely forgotten about. There must be a version of me living quietly in other people's memories. A little girl with scraped knees and untidy hair. A girl who could spend an entire afternoon with a book, who believed certain places would always feel familiar, who didn't yet know that people could leave and that some goodbyes would follow you long after they were spoken. I wonder if anyone remembers her. Maybe somewhere, in someone's memory, she is still there. Still laughing. Still reading. Still running after the birds, after the butterflies, after the moving clouds in the sky. And perhaps that is one of the ways life preserves itself. Not in photographs or names or the things we leave behind, but in the minds of people who remember a version of us that we can no longer reach ourselves. Somewhere, someone still remembers the small version of me. I hope she is happy there. M. | October 2026

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The first day of October, and somehow, I find myself in a place I never thought I would have to return to. The cold voice in my mind keeps asking, “Why am I still here? Why do I keep trying so hard when I am already so tired?” Some days, giving up can sound deceptively simple. No more fighting through another painful day. No more waking up and having to convince yourself to keep going. No more asking yourself how much longer you can carry what you have been carrying. And still, I am here. Still trying. I wish I could say I always know why. I don’t. Sometimes, I keep going because there are still things I love. People I love. Small pieces of life that I am not ready to leave behind. Sometimes, I keep going simply because I have made it this far, and some part of me still believes there must be something waiting for me on the other side of this. Maybe that is what trying really is. Not knowing how everything will turn out, but refusing to let one difficult chapter decide the ending for you. So I will try again tomorrow. And then, if I have to, the day after that. M. | 1st October 2026

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“Hey, can I get back to you later? I’m in the middle of trying to keep myself together.” Often, you wish you could say that to people. Tell them the truth, so they might understand what it is like sometimes inside your head. And yet, some days, your mind opens the door to its own ghosts, and suddenly there is no room left inside you for anything else, no explanation you could offer. So you retreat, slowly disappearing from the world, finding your way back to the familiar darkness that was once your hiding place. You thought you had left it behind, believing you had finally found your way out. Only to find yourself standing at its door, once more. And you think to yourself, “One of these days, the ghosts will get tired too.” M. | September 2026

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“And you do not need my forgiveness, nor I yours; it is all the same whether you forgive or not, all the rest of my life you will remain like a wound in my soul, and I in yours - and that is proper” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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“I can't think of anything to write about, I'm just walking around here between the lines, under the light of your eyes, in the breadth of your mouth as in a beautiful happy day, which remains beautiful and happy, even when the head is sick and tired.” ~Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

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I didn't notice September leaving until there was so little of it left. Maybe that is how time works when you are simply trying to make it through the days. You wake up, you do what needs to be done, you carry whatever is still waiting for you, and somewhere between one day and the next, an entire month has passed. There are things in me that may never completely disappear. The sadness. The anxiety. The old fears that still know exactly where to find me. Perhaps I will carry some of them for the rest of my life. And I know there will still be days when I fall apart. Days when my mind becomes too loud, when I am tired of carrying myself, when getting through the day feels like an accomplishment no one else will ever know about. I will keep going, even on the days when living feels less like certainty and more like an act of faith. Maybe strength was never about becoming someone who could not be broken. Maybe it was learning that brokenness does not get to decide what happens next. September is leaving now. I don't have some beautiful ending for it. I don't think I need one. It was a month. I lived through it. Some days I was brave. Some days I was barely holding myself together. Most days, I was somewhere in between. But I kept going. M. | September 2026

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