'More Than What I Post'

More Than What I Post

I often find myself tangled in this strange web of emotions where my heart says don’t make new connections, but my soul, ever so soft, ends up weaving new threads anyway. I become the "best of friends" to people I never even planned to speak to. It’s not out of need or selfishness — NO. I don’t keep them for favors. I keep them because I fear the guilt of letting go, the whisper of “wasn’t that wrong of you?” echoing within me.

Because the more hands you hold, the more hearts you promise not to break.

And I? I make promises without knowing I did.

At times, I adore this nature of mine, the one that blooms like spring in everyone’s garden. But when winter strikes and I find myself alone, the cold feels unforgiving. It's not a loud kind of loneliness, it's the silence that screams the most.

I’m not desperate for company. I find peace in solitude too. But sometimes, I wish someone would just sit beside me, not to talk, not to solve, but to simply be there.

Someone who holds my hand and says, “I’ve got you, even in the dark.”

Sometimes, a hug could save a soul more than a thousand words.

I do have friends. Offline, online, souls I trust. People who would probably stay up late if I ever whispered I wasn’t okay. But even then, I hesitate. I shrink. I smile through my messages while tears stain my pillow.

Why does vulnerability feel like undressing in a snowstorm?

Why do I feel like I need a reason to cry, a label to my sadness?

There are nights I wish to cry like a child, unashamed and unhidden, to curl into someone’s warmth, safe and sound. Not because I’m weak, but because the world is loud and I’m tired. Tired of holding myself together when the pieces just want to fall.

I believe in the magic of time. That things will change, life will bloom again, and somewhere between the wait and the ache, I’ll find my person.

But until then, I carry my longing like a lantern, flickering, hopeful.

People say, “Get a boyfriend. That’ll fix it.”

As if love is a glue and pain is a vase.

But I don’t want someone to fix me. I want someone who’ll choose me with flaws, floods, and all.

I want someone who’ll stay, not because I ask them to, but because they find peace in the chaos of me.

I don’t want to beg for presence. I want to be someone's favorite place to arrive at, not their obligation.

So I wait. I whisper my needs into the universe, hoping it listens.

Maybe, one day, I’ll be someone’s gentle sunrise.

Maybe, one day, I won’t need to type my ache to the windows of ChatGPT. 

Maybe, one day, someone will read me, not the version I post, but the pages I hide.

Until then, I remain—a soul with a thousand friends, but a heart still waiting to be someone’s home.