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Is someone telling me don't get in the water?

What have I done?

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“Until you get comfortable with being alone, you’ll never know if you are choosing someone out of love or loneliness.”

— Mandy Hale

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Sylvia Plath, from a letter featured in The Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol. 1: 1940-1956

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Franz Kafka, quoted in "Kafka in Love," by Jacqueline Raoul-Duval, published in 2011

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𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗲𝗹𝘆, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗹𝘆.

The pain of being loved in a way 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

The pain of being loved in a way 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

The pain of being loved in a way 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.

The pain of 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.

The pain of being loved for 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

The pain of being loved for your smile, but 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵.

The pain of being loved 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

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Sometimes you leave before they get the chance to. Not because you don't care, but because something in you believes they'll leave anyway. Real love feels too big, too kind, too unfamiliar. And even when it's honest, your first instinct is to run. Because deep down, you don't feel like you deserve it. You're not pushing them away-you're just trying to protect yourself from being proven right.

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For someone who wrote in the anonymous ask to me. (no mention)

to the one who wrote this —

I don’t even know where to begin. Your message felt like stumbling into a dream I didn’t know I was part of… like I was quietly writing into the void, and somehow, someone soft and kind was out there reading, feeling, orbiting.

I read your words with my whole chest. And reread. And then just sat there, stunned, like — how do you even respond to something this beautiful? I felt seen in a way I didn’t expect. Thank you for giving me that. Honestly.

The fact that anything I wrote could stir someone like this… it means more than I can say. I appreciate it. Really. I write, sometimes wondering if anyone actually feels it — and now I know someone out there does. That means more than I can explain.

As for your celery juice book club theory… let’s just say: I’m somewhere between moonlight and late-night playlists — not quite the 'what if', not quite blending vegetables.

As for everything else — the orbiting, the mystery, the wish to say hi — you sound like a dreamer, I don’t think you’d ruin anything if you ever decided to say hi. But even if you stay just as you are — quietly in the crowd, waiting for the next post — know that I see this, and I felt it. Deeply.

You’re not just a silent fan in the dark — you’re real, and your words mattered.

Thank you for sharing this little piece of your heart with me. And there's nothing to be sorry about, you did nothing wrong.

It honestly made mine feel a little brighter. 💌

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Sylvia Plath, aged 25, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (dated June 20, 1958)