writesbyaina

[writesbyaina]

i hope this email finds you in love with me

[writesbyaina]

“Think of two people, living together day after day, year after year, in this small space, standing elbow to elbow cooking at the same small stove, squeezing past each other on the narrow stairs, shaving in front of the same small bathroom mirror, constantly jogging, jostling, bumping against each other’s bodies by mistake or on purpose, sensually, aggressively, awkwardly, impatiently, in rage or in love – think what deep though invisible tracks they must leave, everywhere, behind them”

— A Single Man, Christopher Isherwood (b. 26 August 1904)

[writesbyaina]

He invited me to a cafe launch, free food he said. A new spot, cozy, something I might like.

But I didn’t know him. Not really. We had talked, here and there, online. Replies to stories, casual conversations that never really went anywhere. He wasn’t a stranger, but he wasn’t someone yet.

I stared at his message for a while, debating. A part of me wanted to go, to meet him, to see if he was different in person. But another part of me the louder part, felt exhausted at the thought. The effort of going out, of meeting new people, of figuring out how to act around someone I’d never met before. It felt like too much.

So, I told him no. Gave some vague excuse. He didn’t push, just sent a simple “alright.”

But later, when the silence got too loud, when the weight of my own company felt heavier than usual, I texted him again.

"Coffee, later?"

A pause. Then—"Sure."

Before he could say anything else, I added, "On me."

Maybe it was my way of making up for refusing earlier. Maybe it was just easier, meeting someone over coffee, without the pressure of a big event. Or maybe, for once, I just wanted to see where this would go.

[writesbyaina]

Sometimes, I have thoughts of ending it all. But for now, I’m still here living, if not for myself, then for my parents’ happiness. My mother nearly lost her life giving birth to me. And yet, here I am, battling thoughts that tell me I don’t deserve to be here.

Depression makes me feel like hurting myself. People say that if you struggle with depression, it means you lack faith. But if that’s true, then why do people with diabetes or high blood pressure need medicine? Why do they take insulin? If you were "normal," wouldn’t you do everything to avoid pain, even the smallest wound?

People give up on life not because they lack faith but because they can’t think straight. Their minds are clouded. That’s why psychiatric treatment exists. That’s why, even now, I take my medication every day to help me live the life I’m supposed to.

I just hope that the new people I meet, and the ones already in my life, won’t hurt me anymore. I never want to hurt anyone the way I’ve been hurt. I just want to live happily.

It’s such a small request. But to me, it means everything.

#personal

[writesbyaina]

I used to be stuck in unhealthy relationships, ones that drained me, left me feeling like a version of myself I didn’t recognize. Every time, it ended the same way. The heartbreak. The betrayal. The realization that I was losing myself. So, I chose to be alone. Not because I gave up on love, but because I refused to settle for anything less than what I deserve.

I don’t mind. I’m no longer just a "single auntie". I’m an unmarried one, and that’s fine by me. Sometimes, I picture myself as someone’s best friend in the future, sharing stories with a son from another family, being the cool adult who gives the best advice. Maybe that’s my fate instead. Maybe that’s enough.

I trust God to know what’s best for me. So, I go with the flow, embracing whatever life throws my way. But it’s funny, my married friends sometimes tell me they envy my life. They see the freedom I have, the ability to go out at night or on weekends without asking anyone’s permission. No husband to answer to, no kids pulling at my sleeves. Just me, my own choices, my own world. All I have to do is let my parents know where I’m going.

But they don’t see everything. They don’t see the nights I wonder if I made the right choice. The moments I think, What if?

A few years ago, I was in a relationship that I never thought would lead me here. I was the kind of person who believed in love, who fought for it. But fate had a different plan. I got cheated on, over and over again. And thankfully, it wasn’t in a marriage. Otherwise, I’d be a single mother by now, picking up the shattered pieces of a life I never asked for.

And yet, the men who broke me? They still watch me live my life. As if they’re waiting. As if they regret. But if they ever wanted a second chance? They wouldn’t get it. Not a second, not a third. They lost me the moment they treated me like I was disposable.

Situationship? Ex? Almost something? Almost, but no.

Whatever it is, just live your life. Without me. #personal

[writesbyaina]

I’m stuck between trying to heal and wondering if I’m even broken.

[writesbyaina]

You texted me first this time.

"Coffee?"

It was almost sunset. I was curled up in my usual corner of the world, halfway through a book, with no real plans for the evening. But something about your text made me pause.

"Where?"

"That cafe near the beach. The one with the ugly chairs but a nice view."

I smiled a little. You remembered.

By the time I got there, the sky was painted in soft shades of orange and pink. The salty breeze clung to my skin as I spotted you sitting outside, facing the waves, fingers lazily tapping against your cup. You looked up just as I sat down, that familiar small smile tugging at your lips.

"You always take your time," you teased, resting your chin on your hand.

"And you always pick the places with the worst chairs," I shot back, sinking into the rickety seat.

You laughed, shaking your head before pushing my drink across the table. I didn’t even have to ask, you already knew what I’d order. Something strong. You, on the other hand, always went for something sweet.

"Why do you always drink the bitter stuff?" you asked, watching as I took a sip.

I shrugged. "Why do you always go for the sweet?"

"Because some things are already bitter enough," you said simply, taking a slow sip from your cup.

We sat there, letting the ocean breeze fill the spaces between our words. We talked about nothing and everything, how the waves looked different at dusk, how the cafe played the same three songs on repeat, how the couple at the next table looked like they were on a first date. The conversation was easy, unhurried, like we had all the time in the world.

I didn’t expect anything from this.

But somehow, sitting across from you, with the scent of coffee and the sound of waves in the background, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we were becoming something more.

[writesbyaina]

I disappear from people’s lives, not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to stay.

[writesbyaina]

Some parts of me heal, while others break all over again.

[writesbyaina]

I want to be understood, but I don’t even understand myself sometimes.

[writesbyaina]

I always have it in my bag. Tucked inside a tiny pocket, next to my lip balm and crumpled receipts. A strip of Alprazolam, just in case.

I don’t take it every day. I can’t. My psychiatrist gives me three pills a week, eighteen for six weeks, but I stretch them out. I only take one when I really need it. When my hands won’t stop shaking, when my chest feels like it’s caving in, when my mind is running so fast that I can’t catch up.

And when I do take it, everything slows down. Too much. Too quiet. Like the volume of the world has been turned all the way down. Someone could be mad at me, raising their voice, waiting for me to react, but I wouldn’t. I’d just look at them, completely still, not feeling much of anything.

That’s what scares me. I don’t want to be numb. I don’t want to be too calm, too detached, too okay with everything. Even if my anxiety makes me leave cafes early, even if I overthink every little thing, even if my heart pounds for no reason. I’d rather feel it. At least it means I’m still here.

So I keep the pills with me. Just in case. A safety net I hope I don’t have to use.

[writesbyaina]

sometimes you have to let certain feelings just pass through you. you feel it, then you let it go. you don’t hold on and you don’t act on it. it’s just visiting you for a moment and doesn’t have to mean much more

[writesbyaina]

Every night, without fail, I take my Seroquel XR. It sits on my bedside table, right next to my phone, small, familiar, routine. I don’t think about it much anymore. It’s just something I do. Like brushing my teeth, like setting my alarm, like reminding myself that tomorrow is another day I have to get through.

The pill is almost comforting in its predictability, like a little piece of control in a world that’s often spinning too fast. My doctor’s voice echoes in my mind, "take it every day, don’t forget", and so I don’t. It’s a command I’ve obeyed for so long now that I don’t question it. I’ve learned not to.

Some nights, I take it and fall asleep easily, like my mind finally allows itself to shut down. My body sinks into the bed, and everything fades. Other nights, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering when it will kick in. I wait for that heaviness to wash over me, for the blur to come and drag me under. It always does, eventually.

But still, the question lingers. Will I ever be able to sleep without it? If I stop, will the weight of everything I’m trying to outrun come crashing back? It’s a fear I don’t let myself entertain for long because the truth is, I don’t know what would happen. I don’t know what’s waiting in the silence when the pill stops taking me away.

And so, every night, I take it. I let the darkness come, and I drift away.

[writesbyaina]

Time keeps passing, but I’m still in the same place.

[writesbyaina]

Knowing something isn't right but still unable to walk away is one of the hardest struggles

[writesbyaina]

“You’re always at cafes,” he said, replying to my story. “Let’s get coffee together sometime.”

I almost ignored it. Not because I didn’t want to go, but because I wasn’t sure if I should. But before I could overthink, I replied, "Okay, when?"

The first time we met, I didn’t expect much. It was just coffee. Just two people who happened to live in the same city, sitting across from each other, sharing a table but not necessarily anything more.

I ordered something strong, something bitter that kept me awake. He ordered something comforting, something warm with a little too much milk and sugar.

“I don’t get how you drink that,” I teased, watching him stir his drink lazily.

He smirked. “Not everything has to be intense all the time.”

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled. And that’s how it started.

It was supposed to be just one time. But then, it happened again. And again.

At some point, we stopped asking. It just became a thing, he waiting outside a cafe for me, me pretending not to notice the way he always saved my seat, both of us knowing we’d see each other again without saying it.

We never really talked about what we were doing, or why. There was no rush, no expectations. Just something familiar, something easy. But one evening, as we sat there like always, he looked at me and said,

“You always pick the strongest thing on the menu.”

“And?”

He smiled, tapping his fingers against his cup. “I think it suits you.”

I raised a brow. “And what about you? Always getting something sweet?”

His smile softened. “Maybe that suits me too.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You always overthink things.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But maybe that’s why we keep meeting here. You with your strong coffee, me with my sweet one. Like we balance each other out or something.”

I didn’t reply. Not because I disagreed, but because maybe, deep down, I knew he was right.

I didn’t expect anything from this meet-up. But somewhere between the conversations that never felt forced, the quiet understanding, and the way we never had to explain why we kept coming back to this table. I realized that comforting presence had slowly turned into something more.

Maybe it was because we were getting older. Maybe it was because we were the same age, watching time slip past us a little too quickly. Or maybe, it was just because it felt good. Being here. Together.

And maybe, that was enough.

[writesbyaina]

It started with an Instagram story. Just a random post, a picture of my coffee, a half-eaten pastry in the frame. Nothing personal, just something to fill the space. I never put much thought into what I posted. It was just habit, something I did without thinking.

And then, you replied.

Not with anything deep. Just a simple, casual comment about how the cafe looked nice, how you’d been meaning to try it. And somehow, that was enough. One reply turned into another. And another. Before I knew it, we were talking. Not in a way that felt forced, but in a way that felt easy. Like it was supposed to happen.

The funny thing was, we lived in the same city. Walking the same streets, breathing the same air, maybe even passing each other without knowing. But we were different.

You were the type to sit in cafes for hours, soaking in the atmosphere, taking pictures for your feed, making every moment look intentional.

Me? I just grabbed my coffee and left. Always alone, always in a rush. I rarely took pictures. My Instagram was just random food, coffee, and things that didn’t really mean anything. Never too personal. Never too deep.

But we understood each other in a way that didn’t need words.

And yet, somehow, we kept disappearing.

Sometimes, I ghosted you first. Life got busy, or maybe I just didn’t know what to say. Sometimes, you disappeared, and I told myself I wouldn’t care. That it was just casual, that it didn’t matter. But then, one of us would break the silence, reply to an old story, react to a post, find an excuse to start again.

And we would fall back into it.

Not in a complicated way. Not in a way that needed defining. Just two people who kept finding each other, over and over again, in the little spaces between life.

Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be. A conversation that never really ended. Just paused, waiting for the next reply.