Is there an age where it becomes embarrassing to still want the love you dream of? A quiet shame that creeps in when you find yourself hoping for a fairytale ending—like if it hasn’t happened by now, maybe it never will?

I don’t think it’s about a lack of options. It’s not that there aren’t enough men in the world. But there’s definitely a scarcity of men with the right intentions. And I’ll be the first to admit—sometimes I don’t even let the kind ones in. The ones who are gentle, who show up, who don’t play games. My heart rarely ignites for them. And maybe that’s on me.

This is the paradox I live in.

I fall for those who unsettle me. Who throw my nervous system into chaos. Because that’s what love looked like to me growing up. Unpredictable. Unstable. It’s what I knew. It’s what felt familiar. So now, when someone comes along and treats me with genuine care, I often feel… nothing. No spark. No pull. Just a strange hollowness.

Because healthy love feels boring. Steady feels boring. And god, how I envy the people who flourish in peace—those who are at ease when things get calm, when love slows down, becomes routine, becomes real.

The love I’ve known is messy and loud and intoxicating. At first, it feels like a high. The uncertainty, the chase, the edge—it keeps me awake. It keeps me wanting. It feels like the only kind of love that exists for me.

And I hate that.

Living with a personality disorder doesn’t define me, but it shapes me. It shapes how I love, how I attach, how I respond to safety and chaos. I’m not trying to make it my identity, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t left fingerprints all over my life.

At some point, you have to be honest with yourself. Maybe I’m just wired differently. Maybe what’s supposed to feel like home never quite will. Maybe my kind of love exists outside the lines of normal—and that’s something I’m still learning to sit with.

They say without trust, a relationship is as good as dead — and I fully agree.
But what about when you still believe in the good in someone?
What about when you see the change, however small?
What about when their effort doesn’t erase the past, but makes you pause and wonder — maybe… maybe this could still work?

So what do we do with broken trust?

I’ve tried to heal from it. I’ve also tried to survive it. I’ve gone through his phone more times than I want to admit. Found nothing I loved — but everything that made just enough sense to leave me confused instead of angry. That strange in-between space. Not guilty, not innocent. Just human.

Still, if you decide to stay with someone who once broke your trust, it’s a risk and a burden you willingly sign up for.
And once you sign up for it, maybe it’s time to stop looking over your shoulder — and start looking for solutions.

I used to check his location.
Not because I didn’t know where he was — but because I needed proof that he still chose me, even when I wasn’t watching. It became a crutch. A tiny screen I used to soothe a massive ache.

But I don’t want to live like that anymore.
I want to learn to trust.
Not blindly — but bravely.
Not all at once — but one gentle, terrifying step at a time.

Rebuilding trust isn’t romantic.
It’s slow, repetitive, and exhausting.
It requires presence, consistency, and repair.
But I believe it’s possible — just like love after loss, or laughter after grief.
It might take time. It might take him showing up in the moments I used to panic.
It might take new memories that are wonderful enough to outnumber the haunting ones.
But I want to try.

So this is my new mission:
To rebuild trust.
To let him be.
To free myself from the weight of suspicion.
Not for him. For me.

I want to love without surveillance.
I want to breathe without fear.
I want to trust again — even if my hands are still shaking.

How has it been months since I last wrote?

It honestly shocks me. Writing was my anchor—my way of coping, healing, surviving. Not being able to write has felt like a slow erosion of my identity, like I’ve been silently mourning parts of myself.

As always, I had planned to clear my drafts before the new year. Start fresh. But right before the new year, everything fell apart. I went through some of the worst online harassment I’ve ever faced. It left me bed-ridden, in shock. Something I loved—someone I was—felt attacked. And from people I once felt safe with. That betrayal broke something in me. And it didn’t stop there—it just kept getting worse. So I retreated. I stopped being vulnerable. I stopped writing. I stopped making sense of my emotions. It felt pointless.

November was rough too. Honestly, it all started unraveling around August. I wanted it to be a beautiful season—new beginnings, maybe even love. And yes, I did fall in love. But I wasn’t loved back—not in the way I deserved. I was told I was loved, but I never really felt it. Everything I experienced said otherwise. Still, I held on. I compromised, I bargained, I hoped—until I nearly lost myself. Actually, I did. That relationship left me with wounds I’m still learning to name. And what hurts most is that I silenced myself for someone else. I didn’t write about what I went through because I wanted to protect them. And in doing that, I betrayed me. I don’t remember half of what happened, but my body does. It’s strange—how trauma lingers in muscles and skin, even when the mind forgets.

Then came February. And it was brutal. Shattered glass, wilted flowers—everything I once loved felt destroyed. I had started detaching in January, little by little. I knew I had to. That relationship was tearing me apart. And detaching—choosing myself—that was hard. I kept slipping back, reasoning with myself, battling emotions with logic. But one day, I said it: It’s over.

I ended it. I burned the bridge. Because I knew if I didn’t, I might walk back. And I couldn’t afford to. I had finally chosen myself. But life doesn’t slow down to let you process. Almost immediately, someone new appeared. Too soon, really. But I was so drained from the last relationship, I didn’t feel like grieving. I just wanted to be happy. And when he said he’d make me happy, I jumped. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was vulnerable. I was still the hopeless romantic who wanted to believe in good endings. But right before my birthday, that too fell apart. He wasn’t who he said he was.

And yet, I wouldn’t let him ruin my birthday.
I told myself no man was worth that.

Then my birthday came. My ex resurfaced, asking for another chance. And there I was—a girl just trying to be happy. So, I gave in. Not because I was healed, not because I had clarity, but because I was tired. I didn’t even get the time to grieve what had ended. But grief doesn’t wait. It caught up with me. It always does.

And now, here I am.
Burnt out.

All I want to do is sleep. Nothing excites me. There’s a void inside me that dulls everything around me. The joy is gone. And yet, I’m overwhelmed by responsibilities I can’t escape. I’m too tired to keep up appearances, too drained to keep every commitment. But I’m still trying. Maybe not as much as I used to. But with whatever I have left.

And that has to be enough for now.