The Enchanted Unrequited

Some absences don’t begin with distance. They begin while everything is still there—while conversations still happen, while names are still saved the same way, while nothing has officially ended… because nothing officially started. And yet, something slowly starts to loosen its grip. She felt it before she understood it. Not in words, not in actions he could be blamed for, but in the spaces between things—the pauses that stretched just a little longer, the replies that arrived just a little emptier. Nothing was wrong. And maybe that was the problem. Because pain without a reason has nowhere to go. She never asked him, “Are you drifting away?” Not because she didn’t want to know, but because she already did. And knowing silently felt easier than hearing it out loud. There was a time when his presence filled everything—not loudly, not overwhelmingly, just enough to make the world feel… held together. Like background music you don’t notice until it stops. And when it did, nothi...

Some love doesn’t announce itself. It stays. It watches. It waits. Five years is a strange amount of time to carry something unnamed — too long to dismiss, too quiet to explain. Time moved forward. The world shifted, paused, rebuilt itself. Her heart didn’t. Love didn’t arrive with intention. It settled. Slowly. Silently. Like something that had always been meant to stay. She never blamed him. That was the hardest part. There was no promise. No label. No moment she could point to and say, “This is where it began.” It simply existed. The way breathing does. To him, she was a friend — and he was kind in that role. He never pretended to be more. He never made promises he couldn’t keep. If anything, his honesty was gentle, even when it hurt. And that is why she never made him the villain in her story. Because how do you accuse someone for not feeling the same depth you do? Her love was not born out of expectations. It was born out of presence. Out of listening. Out ...

Some loves don’t make noise. They don’t knock on your door with flowers or promises. They just… exist quietly—like the hum of the ceiling fan at night, or the steady beat of a heart you never really notice until it’s gone. I sometimes think… if I were a fish, things would be easier for you, maybe then you would have loved me too a bit. Not the kind that swims away into an endless ocean, but the kind that stays in one small glass bowl, in a corner of your room, living quietly in your space without asking for more than you can give. Maybe I’d be a brigh blue with a golden shimmer, the kind of color that feels like peace after a storm. Maybe you’d have even given me a name—something soft and meaningful with love, like June, a name you’d say quietly when you were near, as if it belonged to a secret only we shared. I wouldn’t talk. I wouldn’t argue. I wouldn’t take up too much room in your life— just enough to see you, enough to feel close. Maybe then you’d think I was...

It’s not the night that feels too long—it’s the silence that feels too loud. They don’t tell you this when you’re young— that there comes a time in life when sleeping alone no longer feels like freedom, but like an unfinished sentence. This solitude is intoxicating. You sprawl across the bed, claim every inch of the blanket, and feel proud of not needing anyone. The silence feels peaceful, the dark feels calm, and you convince yourself you are enough for your own company. But time changes the way nights feel. Somewhere along the way, the bed begins to look too big for just one body. You notice the other pillow lying untouched— a silent witness to the conversations that never happened, to the laughter that didn’t spill into the night, to the “goodnight” that was never whispered in the dark. It whispers memories into your ear, presses its cold weight against your chest, and reminds you of every conversation you wish you could have at 2 a.m. At first, you think you m...

Love is not just a feeling—it is a force, a sacred fire that holds within it a beauty so profound and a magic so gentle, that no other power in existence can compare. It doesn’t seek to dominate, to control, or to overpower. It doesn’t shout, demand, or force its way into hearts. Love arrives softly. It doesn’t need permission to bloom, yet it never trespasses. It never tries to win, yet it always triumphs. Even in the face of the harshest aggression, love stands unshaken. All anger, ego, and control melt in its presence—dissolving quietly, almost reverently. Love doesn't fight. It transforms. It doesn’t break down walls; it makes them irrelevant. Where there was once poison, love brings purity. Where there was death—in spirit, in hope, in joy—love breathes new life. And where there was numbness, love stirs a dance—ecstatic, sacred, free. Life without love is not truly life. It is a shell, a routine, a muted existence. You may laugh, eat, succeed—but without love, there...

He asked me, with a playful smirk, "So, when’s the next time you’re going to fight with me?" And I smiled, the kind of smile that hides more than it shows, "The day you come to me and say you’ve found the one for yourself— That day, I’ll fight with you." Not out of anger. Not out of jealousy. But because something inside me will shatter. That day… When another girl touches you. When your eyes hold someone the way I always wished they’d hold me.— When your heart belongs elsewhere—, I will stand still, bleeding without blood. And yes— I’ll say a lot of things. I might punch your shoulder, your stomach, your chest— Not to hurt you, But to stop myself from hugging you one last time. And in the end, I will take your hand— That same hand I used to imagine slipping a ring onto someday. I will kiss it, softly, as if it’s my final prayer. And I will hold you in a hug that says all the things words failed to. One that says: I’m happy for you. I’m lett...