Life has always felt like a tug-of-war between what I desire and what I fear. Between holding on and letting go. Between moments of warmth and the inevitable chill that follows.
I’ve loved deeply, only to watch that love slip through my fingers like sand. I’ve longed for things that, once they were mine, no longer felt like they belonged to me. There’s a strange contradiction in wanting something so badly, only to doubt it the moment it’s within reach. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s self-sabotage, or maybe it’s just the way life teaches its hardest lessons.
Somewhere along the way, I learned that “forever” is a fragile word. That promises, no matter how sincere, can be broken. That love and pain often walk hand in hand, and sometimes, the difference between them is just a matter of time.
And yet, I keep wanting. Hoping. Trying. Because no matter how many times I’ve whispered “never again” to myself, my heart always seems to have a different plan. Maybe that’s what it means to be human—to crave the fire even when you know it might burn.
Tonight, as I write this, a song plays in the background, echoing feelings I can’t quite put into words. Some stories don’t have endings—only pauses, only echoes, only the lingering question: Did I ever truly want it, or did I just want the idea of it?
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