everaftermuse

[everaftermuse]

dear diary,

it’s been a month for us… i don’t even know how to put this into words, but i’m happy, to be around him, to be with him, and still get to call him mine.

so this time, i made a playlist for him (i literally made this earlier while i was having lunch…tmi). and i just really wish he knows… how much i adore him, how much i appreciate him, how much i love him.

i’m sorry i’m such a deadliner lol 😭 (even my diary would boo-ing me rn, but this is me!!!) um.. i wanted this to be perfect but i think i’m wasting too much time just thinking and doing nothing and feeling eepy (bf knows this side of me v well and i hope he doesn’t mind lol). but anyway, i hope it still reaches him. i hope he feels it.

honestly, i’ve been scared (not really) that i’m not enough for him and i don’t meet whatever he had in mind when he said he love me… but thank God cus he’s here, he stays with me, and listen to me, and always made space for me, and always makes time for me. it means everything. and i’d thank him for that, always.

my dear diary… please tell him how much he means to me, how much i adore and admire and appreciate and care and respect and love him.

and just incase if someday he reads my diary..

hehe.. hello my baby nyiam!! i love you!! :)

[everaftermuse]

the words her aunt had said earlier… just a few hours ago in the living room, while sara and her siblings sat around chatting after her mom left…wouldn’t leave her alone.

“sometimes… the walls talk back, if you’re lonely enough to listen.”

sara had laughed at the time. she even made a joke about walls telling her to moisturize or fix her posture. everyone giggled, and the moment passed.

but now, it was 2:30 a.m.

the house had gone still. quiet in that way only houses can be when they know someone is alone. the air felt thicker. her blanket, too warm. her thoughts, too loud. she was curled up in bed, staring at the corner of her wall like it owed her answers.

can you really talk back? she thought, not even daring to whisper.

the wall didn’t move, obviously. it just sat there being… wall-ish. beige. slightly chipped from where she’d once flung a tote bag too hard.

she stares at the wall. not because it moves. just… in case.

then—

a soft click. a whisper.

“sara.”

her spine stiffens. the voice isn’t in the room. it’s inside the wall. “you remember me?” the voice asks. “you used to talk to me… you called me your friend.”

a pause.

“ocha. that’s what you named me.”

ocha.

ocha.

a name that didn’t quite ring a bell, but tugged at something… distant, hazy. she didn’t remember ever saying it. but her mom used to joke about it sometimes. said sara, when she was little, would talk to someone named ocha.

an imaginary friend, probably.

someone she swore lived “in the corners,” whatever that meant. but sara had no memory of that. just stories told over dinner. just laughter from adults who never thought to take it seriously. until now.

“you grew up,” ocha says.

“i didn’t.”

“we’re not the same anymore.”

the voice doesn’t sound angry. just… lonely.

“did you miss me?” ocha whispers.

“because i missed you.”

sara didn’t breathe. didn’t move.

the voice wasn’t echoing. it was here. like it had always been here.

“you stopped talking to me,” it said, almost like a pout. “but i remember everything. your drawings. your secrets. the songs you made up when you were sad.”

sara’s throat tightened.

“it’s okay,” ocha continued. “you’re grown now. you don’t need me anymore. but i still wanted to say hi.”

then… nothing. no sound. not even the buzz of the lamp. she jolts awake. lamp still on. room still. wall… just a wall.

it was a dream.

right?

[everaftermuse]

it started with a mirror. not a metaphorical one, a real, obnoxiously clean mirror in the dressing room of her first student runway show.

sara was just standing there, half-zipped into an asymmetrical mess she’d sewn at 2 a.m., staring at herself while two of her classmates floated past like swans. perfect posture. perfect skin. their garments practically breathed couture.

sara blinked at her reflection and muttered, “i look like i lost a fight with a curtain.”

the funny thing was she didn’t even hate how she looked. not really. what hurt was the comparison. the way she kept measuring her worth in stitches and silhouettes, as if there was only one way to be “enough.” and that wasn’t new. she’d spent so many years performing worthiness, smiling wide, dressing right, always trying to be the most put-together girl in the room. like if she just looked the part, maybe she was the part. like confidence could be stitched together, and belonging could be earned with good taste.

but, survival through perfection is a trap. and perfection, as she learned, is always a moving target.

one night, it all cracked. she was in studio c, kneeling on the floor, her fingertips raw from too many pins. her sketchbook was crumpled in a corner like a failed dream. her eyes were glossy, blurry, tired. she didn’t even know why she was crying. okay—maybe a little. the seam was crooked. the thread had run out halfway. someone stole her fabric scissors. but mostly, it was that voice in her head that just wouldn’t shut up. “they’re better than you. you’re not original. you’re just cute, not couture. you’re a fluke.”

she couldn’t remember exactly when it started. maybe the third critique. maybe the fifth flawless instagram reel. maybe the day her lecturer praised someone else’s work using the exact words she’d hoped to hear. or maybe it was just the slow, quiet way doubt creeps in like dye into silk. gradual. permanent.

everyone else seemed to shine effortlessly. their stitches were cleaner. their moodboards more aesthetic. their confidence more believable. and sara? sara was a lil messy. she doodled hearts in the margins of her sketches. picked colors based on vibes. she didn’t design for applause, she designed for the story. the silly, chaotic, sentimental kind. but that didn’t seem to count in a world obsessed with polish and prestige.

so she started changing. she wore more black. talked less. adjusted her designs to look more like them. until one day, her lecturer looked at her collection and said, “this is nice… but it doesn’t feel like you.” and weirdly, that hurt more than any of the critiques before. because it was true. she had gotten so busy trying to be good that she forgot how to be herself.

that night, she went home, cried into her pastel pink throw blanket, ate peanut butter straight from the jar, and opened her sketchbook, not to fix anything, just to feel again. she drew the weirdest things that made her laugh: a frog in a ball gown, a blouse shaped like a croissant, a handbag that giggled when you opened it. and for the first time in weeks, she smiled.

the next day, penny—one of the older assistants found her outside the lab. penny didn’t say much. she just handed her a scrap of fabric and said, “make something ugly. but make it yours.”

so sara did.

she came to class in a lopsided patchwork vest that looked like it’d been attacked by a rainbow. it was hideous. it was brilliant. it was hers.

and something shifted. not outside but inside. she stopped trying to outshine. she started trying to be herself, louder. the fear didn’t disappear. it still showed up especially in fitting rooms and foggy mirrors. but it stopped narrating her life. she still spirals sometimes. still overthinks sleeves and symmetry. but now she also laughs louder, hugs tighter, and designs clothes that look like they listened to taylor swift at 3 a.m.

maybe her magic wasn’t in being perfect. maybe it was in being real. authentic. chaotic. soft. messy. loud. hers. she doesn’t stitch for perfection anymore. she stitches for joy. and healing? it didn’t look like a glow-up. it looked like glow-through-it.

and honestly? she wouldn’t trade that kind of magic for anything else.

[everaftermuse]

[everaftermuse]

Things Sara was supposed to do today:

Finish her assignment

Reply to emails

Clean her room

Things Sara actually did today:

Spent 40 minutes deciding which socks to wear

Took a “quick break” and accidentally deep-cleaned her skincare shelf

Had an existential crisis over whether she’s more of a cinnamon roll or a matcha girl now

at 3:27 PM, she found herself sitting on the floor, surrounded by tote bags and the haunting realization that she had too many unfinished notebooks. like, why were there so many? who was she planning to be? a victorian poet?

she picked one up, the lavender cover one, a tiny cat sticker on the corner and flipped through pages of random dreams, doodles, half-baked poetry, and lists like “things that make me feel alive (tentative)”.

rain sounds

musics

new pens

someone brushing her bangs away gently (???) :3

wearing lipgloss for no reason

she stared at the list for a while, smile tugging at her lips.

sometimes without realizing it healing didn’t take something big to make. it was just rediscovering little things. like what she did, to open again her old notebook. or maybe just by the smell of your favorite lip balm. or remembering those little things, yes, you are allowed to romanticize your own life even if you haven’t done your laundry yet.

[everaftermuse]

ShuJie Wang, 1983-

Reading with the cat, 2025, oil on canvas, 27.6x19.7 in

[everaftermuse]

Dear Diary…

there’s this tiny ache i carry around with me…it’s quiet, but loud enough to keep me up at night.

it’s the fear of being left behind. not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. just… slowly. subtly. like people around me start to laugh louder with someone else. text someone else first. make plans that don’t include me. and i’m just… there. watching from the sidelines, pretending it doesn’t sting.

sometimes i wonder if i’m just too “in-between.” not the fun one, not the mysterious one, not the ride-or-die. just… me. soft, easy to talk to, easy to forget.

i try to be there for people. i listen, i show up, i care so deeply and it hurts. but somehow, it always feels like i’m never quite the one they’d choose first. like i’m just the comfortable option when everything else is too loud or too complicated.

and i hate that it bothers me. i hate that i second-guess every interaction, overthink every “seen” message, overanalyze every plan i wasn’t invited to.

i keep telling myself: “you’re okay on your own. you’ve always been.” but the truth is… i don’t want to always be the one who’s okay being alone. i want to matter. not just in passing. not just when it’s convenient. i want to be someone’s favorite person.

but maybe some of us are just the background characters in someone else’s highlight reel. and maybe, for now, that’s all i get to be.

[everaftermuse]

[January 14th, 2025]

the morning felt soft. warm light spilled through the curtains, the kind that made you wanna believe everything was gonna be okay. sara sat by her desk, hoodie on, hair still a little chaotic from sleep, one hand gripping a warm mug of tea and the other… holding a sandwich she forgot she was eating.

somewhere in the background, bejeweled by taylor swift played like the main character anthem it absolutely is.

every line felt personal—like taylor wrote it after reading her diary or something. it was weirdly healing. 2024 had been kind of a trainwreck: emotional potholes, people who drained her soul, and a whole lot of overthinking. but now it was 2025. clean slate. new chapter. new moodboard.

she made a mental note: bejeweled is officially my 2025 vibe. because yeah, she does polish up real nice. and she was done dimming her sparkle just to make others comfy.

but just as she started to drift into her little ✨pinterest-worthy self-actualization montage✨, a voice cut through:

“are you not going outside? it’s 11AM. you said you’d do the laundry, didn’t you?”

sara blinked.

“i’m on it, mooooom.”

and just like that, the magical moment was gone—replaced with the reality of laundry baskets and mismatched socks. bu her heart still felt a little lighter.

because today? she felt like herself again.

[everaftermuse]

i almost cried over a sandwich today…

it’s been a weird day. i had three things on my to-do list and i managed to ignore all of them with the confidence of a girl who definitely doesn’t have her life together.

i also accidentally snapped at a barista because they spelled my name “Letisio” and i’m not sure who that is but she sounds like she pays taxes and has a linkedin.

also. i almost cried over a sandwich. not because it was bad. but because it was good. like, weirdly good. like “this sandwich is the only thing holding me together” good.

anyway. currently lying in bed with a green tea sheet mask and enough existential dread to power a small city.

but my hoodie’s warm and the playlist is cute. so i guess i’ll be fine.

probably.

[everaftermuse]

⠀⠀ ✿ everaftermuse.com | Leticia Sara ✿

Leticia Sara had two moods: runway ready or burrito-wrapped-in-a-blanket. there was no in between. one second she’s posing for a photoshoot downtown, the next she’s in her room, watching tangled for the 11th time while devouring ramen like it’s haute cuisine.

at 20 years old, sara was already juggling fashion school, freelance modeling gigs, and a suspiciously large collection of bucket hats. people knew her as the effortlessly stylish girl who could make even a grocery run look like a vogue shoot. What they didn’t know? she was actually a major introvert disguised as a social butterfly.

at uni, she’s everyone’s friend but no one’s really sure how. she just appears; smiling, chatting, sipping on a pink drink and suddenly the entire group is planning to watch a movie together. she’s that socially magnetic introvert: super fun at the party, but absolutely silent in her room three hours later, eating snacks and rewatching her favorite movies/series like it’s a personality trait (which it kind of is).

things that you have to know about sara is…she is a mix of fashion shows, random deep talks at 2AM, and existential crises over whether she should dye her hair or start a new pinterest board instead. art is her love language. history and culture is also a major yes. museums make her feel things. like emotional, in-a-good-way things.

someday, she dreams of building her own fashion label, something soft but bold, dreamy but grounded. pieces that feel like a warm hug and a quiet rebellion at the same time. not just clothes, but little fragments of her world stitched into fabric and color.

she’s the human version of twenty open tabs; half fashion inspo, half existential crisis. her brain’s a rotating carousel of “what if i start a brand?” “should i bleach my hair?” and “omg this fabric feels like a hug.” she’ll probably design her first collection in pajamas, powered by matcha and emotional spirals.

no, she doesn’t have a business plan. yes, she already picked out the brand colors.

figuring life out? not really. but if there’s one thing she’s sure of, it’s that her creations will be a perfect mix of heart and whatever color she’s obsessed with that week. (depends)