It’s been far too long since I’ve written like this.

For a while, my words were weaponised against me, and somewhere in the aftermath of that, the part of me that knew how to write disappeared too. My feelings stopped romanticising things. There were no more curated movies in my head, no background music, no slow-motion heartbreaks. Just reality. Sharp and unfiltered.

I’ve grown, I think.

Awareness was never my weakness. I always saw things for what they were. My problem was hope. I loved too hopefully. I still do, if I’m honest, but now it comes with realism attached to it. I’m still willing to bet on someone, but with caution this time. I’ll still open myself up, still hand someone the softer parts of me, but now I know I’ll survive even if they fail to hold them carefully.

One thing I’ve learned, bitterly, is that the people you love the most will always wound you the deepest. Your greatest loves become your deepest scars. And everyone I’ve ever truly loved has left a mark on me.

Maybe it’s my expectations. Maybe it’s the distorted way I’ve understood love all my life.

I get hurt too easily, but somehow, I’m easily convinced too.

Now let’s talk about him.

The one giving me borderline limerence vibes. The one unsettling me in all the wrong ways. The one who is probably, objectively, bad for me.

And isn’t that embarrassing?

Why is it always the wrong ones that feel the most exciting? The inconsistency. The unpredictability. The “will he, won’t he” games. The tiny moments of validation hidden between confusion. I’m almost ashamed by how aware I am while actively walking into it anyway.

But then, in the middle of all that chaos, they give you glimpses of sweetness. Small moments that feel unbearably genuine, and suddenly you’re sitting there thinking, well damn.

The truth is, I don’t think anything has bruised me more than my last relationship.

And believe me, in all my years of dating, I’ve met every kind of person imaginable. But nobody dismantled my life, my sanity, or my sense of self the way he did. I hate it. I hate him for it sometimes. I hate the choices I made for him.

But strangely enough, he also introduced me to a version of myself I’ll always be grateful for.

Not because of him, but because of me.

For the first time in my life, I realised I was capable of loving unconditionally. The kind of love books romanticise endlessly. Except there was nothing romantic about it. I was starving emotionally, being hurt under the disguise of love, convincing myself endurance was devotion.

So yes, that relationship completely rearranged my understanding of love.

But it also restored my faith in myself.

Because when everything fell apart, I met the strongest version of me in the wreckage.

I guess I should thank him for breaking me. Without it, I would never have discovered who I could become after surviving it.

Love feels different to me now.

I’m no longer the hopeless romantic I once was. I’ve become cynical in ways I never expected. Still, somewhere underneath all that cynicism, I deeply believe the love meant for me will find me if it’s written for me.

And maybe that changes the way I write from now on too.

I want to write again. Properly. Freely. I want to stop tiptoeing around my own thoughts.

I was blackmailed over my writing once. Funny now, almost unbelievable. But at the time, it shattered me. And when I needed someone to protect me, I was completely alone. I have never felt so helpless in my life. I had everything to lose, and nobody standing beside me.

So now, when people ask me what the hottest thing a man can do is, my answer is simple: Keep me safe.

That’s it. That’s the hottest thing a man can do.

Anyway.

I’m back, baby.

Stronger. Wiser. Slightly more guarded. Maybe even a little cooler too.

I feel so deeply uninterested. Nothing excites me. Nothing feels new. There’s nothing I’m looking forward to.

Sometimes, I feel most alive when I think about certain paths I’ve walked before. But there’s no real desire to retrace those steps either.

It’s been like this for a while. I try to put myself out there, but there’s a quiet resistance inside me—a kind of empathy that holds me back. I try to reason with myself, and I know it’s okay to take time, but still… I just can’t do it yet.

My therapist asked me if I feel like I lose a part of myself with every relationship that ends. Like something inside me dies with them. I had never really thought of it that way. But I told him this: every breakup leaves behind a different version of me. Some made me stronger, some left me feeling less.

The only connection I’ve felt recently was the one that promised something permanent the moment I replied. And because it happened so easily, I thought it wouldn’t be that hard to feel that way again. But it is. Nothing sparks. Nothing glows. Nothing ignites anything inside me.

Maybe that’s why I keep looking back. The most thrilling parts of my life were often the moments I wasn’t supposed to be living. The ones laced with risk, spontaneity, and just enough secrecy to make them unforgettable.

I remember giving them a time and waiting. Wondering if they’d show up. Wondering if they’d be early, late, or not come at all. One always came right on time. The other was barely there and always late.

Maybe they’ll always be my favorite mistakes. Both of them made me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long time. But only one gave it back to me fully. With him, it was like we felt the same things at the same time, and there was no running from it.

June 2019. A time I’d relive in a heartbeat. It looks even more perfect from this distance, but I know it wasn’t. It was always wrong. And maybe I should feel ashamed, but I wasn’t. Because I didn’t demand anything. I didn’t push. I just went with the flow. And I was okay with that—because for the first time in a long time, someone made me feel alive again.