Walking home from the office is something I love, even though the streets of Malé aren’t built for walking. It’s not the cracked pavements or the narrow lanes that draw me in—it’s the people I come across.

There was this old woman I saw today, probably in her late 70s. Her short white hair stood out like a crown of wisdom, and her gentle demeanor caught me off guard. She stood quietly at the edge of the pavement, making space for everyone else to pass. Such a gentle soul. I smiled at her, and to my surprise, she smiled back. It was such a simple exchange, yet it warmed my heart in a way that words can’t describe. And just around the corner, I saw a father picking up his child from daycare—a toddler no older than one. In that brief moment, the circle of life seemed to close before my eyes. One woman nearing the end of her journey, and a father holding the future in his arms.

This is why I love these walks, even when they’re born out of necessity because I couldn’t find a cab. It started to drizzle as I walked, adding a softness to the chaos of the day. The rain always has a way of making everything feel a little more forgiving. Despite the mess in my mind, these walks remind me of how small my worries are in the grand scheme of things. You pass by countless lives, each filled with their own struggles, joys, and quiet moments of grace. And somehow, in that passing, you realize that your problems may not be as overwhelming as they seem. The world goes on, and so will you.

It’s been a rough week, and I can feel myself slipping. Slowly, piece by piece, I’ve started losing interest in parts of my life that once mattered, and with that comes this unsettling feeling—like I’m losing control of everything. There’s this constant weight, like I’m standing at a crossroads I never chose, faced with decisions I don’t want to make, and somehow, I keep hurting the one person I love the most. Unintentionally, but still, I’m causing pain, and it’s eating away at me.

Right now, I’m sitting here making yet another promise to myself: that next week will be different. That next week, I’ll finally get my life together, clean up the mess, and fix what’s broken. But deep down, there’s this strange, nagging feeling. It’s familiar because I’ve been here before, telling myself the same thing over and over. And the truth is, for so long, I thought I already had my shit together. Even when I was battling my depression, even when my mind was a storm of confusion and noise, I could still drag myself out of bed. I could still function, go to work, and keep up appearances.

But now, it feels different. Now, I can’t seem to push through. It’s like my energy is completely drained, and I’m left staring at this version of myself I don’t recognize. Maybe I know where the problem lies, maybe I don’t. Either way, something inside me has shifted, and I know I have to face it. The hardest part is figuring out where to start, because for the first time, I feel like I’m truly lost. It’s a problem I can’t keep running from anymore—something’s got to give, and I’m the only one who can fix it.

I want to push harder, but I’m scared. Scared that if I do, they’ll leave. Even though I’ve healed, there’s still this lingering thought that I’m unlovable. I’ve believed it for so long that it’s like muscle memory—the feeling of not being wanted or loved enough.

Children who grow up broken become broken adults. So love your kids well, not because it’s something that needs to be said, but because it should be instinctual—human nature. Every child who isn’t loved properly grows into someone who craves it, who settles for any scraps of affection they find. They’ll love you raw, without armor, because they’re desperate. So they settle. I’ll take what I can get. If intimacy means giving myself up, then fine. I’ll do it just to feel close to someone, to feel loved, even if it’s fleeting. Damn this life. Damn the demons I carry. Damn every self-sabotaging, destructive version of me.

I feel heavy with sadness today.

I’m in tears. I want to call you, to say I need you. But if you wanted to be here, you would be. So I don’t.

While she was packing up her things and walking away from him, she had no idea that just a few miles away, another girl sat in front of a camera, obliviously straightening her hair, speaking to a screen, wrapped in her own world. The weight of leaving someone behind, the silence that now filled the emptying home—these two moments existed in separate universes, untouched by one another. Yet soon, they would intersect in a way no one expected.

That’s the strange yet beautiful thing about life. One story had to end so another could begin, all in perfect timing. Life is all about timing. Two people can meet and fall in love, but for that love to flourish, they need both timing and luck on their side. And that’s what we had.

I was the girl at home, talking to my camera. A little blue, but relishing my freedom. Love was something I had once craved, but now it sat on the back burner, an afterthought. He, on the other hand, was a stranger to me—a fleeting memory of one of the oddest, most uncomfortable encounters of my life when I was 22. Back then, if you’d told me he’d reenter my life, I would’ve laughed. Nine years had passed since that strange encounter, and yet here we were, our paths about to cross again in the most serendipitous way.

Honestly, if I could’ve chosen, I wouldn’t have picked to be in the same room as him, let alone share any part of my life. I didn’t know him, and frankly, I didn’t care to. Our history was messy and complicated. It wasn’t the kind of past that led to second chances.

But life, in its peculiar way, brought us back together, this time with the possibility of something new. A clean slate, if we wanted it. Whether we would become friends or simply two people who no longer held onto bitterness was something we had to decide for ourselves. He, surprisingly, chose to be the bigger person. He reached out first. Not in the kindest way—no, his initial approach was a full-on public takedown. But just weeks later, he offered something unexpected: a simple apology. There was curiosity in his words, a softness I hadn’t known before.

Of course, he still had his pride, and he made sure I knew he wanted me to own up to my part in our shared history. He wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t been perfect either, and I could see that now. So I apologized—for the unfairness.

And that was how it started. What began as a hesitant, almost misguided attempt at friendship soon became something much deeper. We started talking—really talking. What began as casual conversations evolved into long, late-night phone calls. Hours would pass, and we would lose ourselves in each other’s voices, sharing pieces of ourselves that had long been hidden. The world outside, which had once seemed so gray, began to fill with color again.