Some days, I feel like I carry too much of the world inside me. I absorb the weight of glances, the sharpness of words left unspoken, the subtle shifts in tone when someone’s pretending to be kind but isn’t. I notice it all—the pauses, the forced smiles, the tension in the air when truth and politeness collide. Maybe that’s what it means to be highly sensitive. To not just see people but to feel them. To notice when their words don’t match their energy. To sense when admiration is laced with envy, when kindness is a performance, when someone is speaking but hiding everything that really matters.
The hardest part is when you start personalising it. When you internalise the way people treat you, assuming it must be something wrong with you. But the truth is, people’s judgments, their inconsistencies, their love or lack of it—it has nothing to do with you. You can’t control how someone sees you. You can’t change their narrative, no matter how much of yourself you pour into proving your goodness. And so, with time, you learn to detach. Slowly, subtly. Not with anger, not with resentment, but with quiet acceptance. The more you understand a person’s thoughts, the easier it becomes to step back. Some connections unravel on their own once the illusion fades. Some people are easier to admire from a distance. And that’s okay.
Authenticity feels lonely sometimes, but I’d rather be alone in my truth than surrounded by people who only love the version of me they’ve created in their minds. Everyone has their own story, their own complexities, and nobody is obligated to admire everyone. Just as I don’t have to shrink myself to fit someone else’s expectations, no one else has to be what I want them to be either.
All I want is emotional safety. A space where I don’t have to question if someone truly sees me or just the idea of me. A space where I can exist without being speculated upon, where I don’t have to dissect my every action, wondering how it will be misinterpreted.

Some days, I wonder how much of me is actually me and how much is just the reflection of what others think I am. It’s strange how people look at someone and create an entire story in their heads—who they are, what they’ve done, what they must be like. And sometimes, they say it out loud, as if their version of the truth is the only one that matters. It spreads, sticks to a person like a second skin, until even they start to question who they really are. I see it happen all the time. A girl who keeps to herself is “arrogant.” A boy who expresses emotion is “weak.” Someone’s success is “luck.” Someone’s struggle is “their own fault.” Judgments, whispered or spoken outright, shape people in ways the world rarely stops to notice. And I wonder—how much easier would life be if we weren’t so quick to decide who someone is before truly knowing them? If we weren’t so eager to label, to box, to dissect and rearrange a person to fit our expectations? Maybe we’d all breathe a little easier.

Maybe we’d let each other exist without the weight of speculation pressing down on our shoulders. Maybe we'd finally learn to see people instead of just stories we tell ourselves about them.

And the next? It’s like they’re picking you apart, questioning your choices, making you feel like you owe them an explanation for simply being.
It makes trust feel impossible. Because how do you believe the reassurance when you know how quickly it can turn? How do you feel safe when the same people who lift you up today might guilt-trip you tomorrow for not being who they expected you to be? It’s like walking on a tightrope, never sure when the admiration will twist into something sharp, when the kindness will start carrying conditions.

And the worst part? The confusion. They reassure you—again and again—that you’re loved, that you’re understood, that they get you. So you believe it. You let your guard down. You stop second-guessing. And just when you start to feel safe, when you start to trust the words, something shifts. A comment, a sigh, a look. Subtle, but heavy. A reminder that their approval isn’t unconditional. That their love is something to be earned.It makes me question everything. Did they ever truly see me, or was I just a projection of what they wanted me to be? And if I don’t fit into that image anymore, will they still be here? Or will they turn, like they always do, turning warmth into distance, praise into passive-aggressive disappointment?
People don’t realise how much damage speculation does. How much it shakes the foundation of emotional safety. How it makes you doubt even the good moments, because if people can build you up without reason, they can also tear you down just as easily. And somehow, it’s always your fault. You didn’t meet their expectations. You changed. You’re not grateful enough. And so the guilt creeps in, even when you know you did nothing wrong.
I hate that feeling. That moment when you realise their words don’t mean what you thought they did. When trust dissolves into something fragile, something that can’t hold the weight of their shifting opinions.

I grew up watching a man who was supposed to love me, protect me, see me—but he was always just out of reach. Present, but never really there. It was like trying to hold onto a shadow, hoping one day it would turn around and hold me back. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t loud. He was just… absent. And somehow, that absence filled the whole house.

I wanted to be a kid who was loved by a father. I wanted to know what it felt like to be small but safe, to be fragile but protected. I wanted to understand how a man’s love could feel steady, secure, real But I grew up learning how to comfort myself. I learned that silence could be louder than words, that presence didn’t always mean safety, and that sometimes the people who are supposed to love you the most don’t know how.

And now, as an adult, that little girl still lives inside me. She still wants to believe that men can be soft, that love doesn’t always leave. But she doesn’t know how to trust it. She doesn’t know how to feel safe in it. Because deep down, she remembers what it was like to reach out and feel nothing.

I don’t blame my father anymore. I don’t even think I blame men. But I carry this wound, and it colours the way I see the world. I wish it didn’t. I wish I could step into love without hesitating, without bracing for distance, without feeling like I have to earn the very thing I should have always had.

I don’t want to hate. I just want to heal.

Speculation is the worst kind of thief. It steals the truth and replaces it with assumptions. People don’t ask, they assume. They fill in the blanks with their own fears, their own biases, their own versions of you that might have nothing to do with who you actually are. And once those assumptions take root, no amount of truth can erase them.

Then comes judgment—the weight of being measured, of being seen but not understood. It feels like standing in a room where every version of you is being analysed, compared, criticised. And no matter how much you explain yourself, no matter how much you try to prove your heart, someone will still find a way to make you the villain in a story you never even agreed to be a part of.

It’s exhausting. To be loved, only to be doubted. To be reassured, only to be confused again. To be made to feel safe, only to have that safety ripped away by a single moment of judgment. It makes me question everything—who is real? Who truly sees me? Who loves me without conditions?

I think that’s why I’ve started detaching. Slowly, quietly. Not because I don’t care, but because I need to protect my peace. Because I refuse to keep proving my heart to people who only see what they want to see.

Maybe emotional safety isn’t something the world hands to you. Maybe it’s something you have to build for yourself—by choosing who you trust, by refusing to explain yourself to those who don’t listen, by realising that love without security is just another way to feel lost.

5. Hyper-vigilance & Fear of Abandonment
- Always on edge, waiting for the next wave of judgment.
- Fear that people’s love and support are temporary and conditional.

6. Depression & Isolation
- Feeling alone in their emotions, because no one seems to understand how much the speculation and judgment hurt.
- Withdrawing from people to avoid the pain of being misunderstood.

Long-Term Impact & Healing:


If left unchecked, these struggles can deeply affect a person’s sense of self, making them feel lost or disconnected from who they really are. The key to healing involves:

Setting Boundaries:

Recognising who is safe to trust and distancing from those who constantly manipulate emotions.

Self-Validation:

Learning to trust their own feelings rather than relying on external reassurance.

Emotional Safety:

Surrounding themselves with people who love them for who they are, not who they are expected to be.

Therapy & Self-Reflection:

Talking to a professional or journaling to untangle the confusion and rebuild confidence.

If someone is going through this, they are not "too sensitive" or "overreacting"—they are responding to inconsistent and unsafe emotional environments. It’s okay to step back. It’s okay to choose peace over approval.

There’s something about human touch that feels like air—like something you don’t realise you’re starving for until it’s been missing for too long.
I think about it more than I say out loud. The warmth of a hand on mine, the way a hug feels like home, how someone’s scent lingers and makes you feel safe in a way words never could. Touch isn’t just physical—it’s reassurance, it’s grounding, it’s proof that you exist in someone else’s world, not just in your own mind.

I crave it in ways I can’t explain. Not just the grand, romantic kind of touch, but the small, quiet ones. A gentle squeeze on my shoulder. Fingers brushing against mine in passing. The weight of someone leaning into me, unspoken trust in the space between us.

But people are so distant now. Everyone is rushing, caught up in their own timelines, their own races, their own battles. We live in a world that glorifies independence but forgets that we are, at our core, creatures built for connection. We pretend we don’t need warmth, that we don’t need to be held, that we can be fine without it. And maybe some people can. But I can’t. I feel the absence of it like a ghost lingering over my skin.

What hurts the most is how comfort has been twisted, sexualised, turned into something transactional. People think a gentle touch must mean desire. That if you crave closeness, you must want something more. When did a hug become an invitation? When did resting your head on someone’s shoulder start needing an explanation? When did human warmth stop being human?
I miss the kind of touch that asks for nothing. The kind that says, I am here. I see you. You are safe. The kind you don’t have to second-guess. The kind that doesn’t come with conditions or expectations or unspoken obligations.
But in a world moving this fast, in a world where comfort is mistaken for weakness, where genuine affection is questioned or twisted—I wonder if we will ever slow down enough to just be. To just hold each other. To remember that touch isn’t just a desire—it’s survival, it’s connection, it’s life.


I want to exist in it. I want to melt into it, to let it remind me that I am not just a mind floating alone, but a body meant to be held, to be cherished, to be felt.

We are wired for this—touch, comfort, closeness. It’s not just a desire; it’s a need. It’s what keeps us alive.

How much of myself am I supposed to give before I realise I am being emptied? How long can love exist in uncertainty, in half-hearted gestures, in words that feel warm but hold no weight?

I am stuck—stuck in something that isn’t love but isn’t quite nothing either. It lingers in between, in the spaces where commitment should be, in the pauses where care should live. He knows I live alone. He knows my needs. He knows I would love nothing more than to be seen, to be heard, to be considered. And yet, he hardly asked, "How was your day?" he never wondered if I ate, if I was safe if I was happy or crumbling inside. He just assumes I’ll be there, waiting, always waiting.

It’s the smallest things that hurt the most. A birthday passes, and not even a simple message a simple flower from the road. Not a coffee, not a chocolate, not a moment of effort. No love language, only silence. And yet, when he speaks, his words are filled with just enough sweetness to keep me holding on—good things about me, kind things, hopeful things as if hope alone can replace love.

Bob Marley once said, "The biggest coward of a man is to awaken the love of a woman without the intention of loving her."I don’t know if he ever truly loved someone, but I know what it feels like to be in love with someone who doesn’t even meet me halfway, who keeps me in a loop of almost love, almost care, almost something.

How much insult is an insult? How do we become nothing more than pastime biscuits, something to be picked up and set down at convenience? How do I reconcile the fact that I have stretched myself beyond my limits, offering love in ways that drain me, while he remains uncertain, unaffected?

And the worst part? I genuinely care. I think about his family, his mother, his sister, the little one who doesn’t even know me but whom I already hold space for in my heart. I understand his work, his struggles, and his stress. I understand him —more than he seems to understand me. But does he even know what I go through? What do I need? Where I am when I’m not waiting for him?

And yet, I stay. Because he has given me hope once. Because he speaks in ways that make me believe. Because I don’t know what to do when I don’t even know if he is really here or not.

It goes like this, I shared the happiest news of my life with you. I waited, checking my phone, hoping for a message, a reaction, something—but days passed, and nothing came. I wanted to hear your thoughts, your words, your voice. I wanted you to celebrate with me, to feel even an ounce of the joy I felt. But instead, I was met with silence. Again.

How much care is enough? How much love must I give before I realise I am the only one holding this up? I know I am responsible for what happens to me. I know I should have guarded my heart better. But why did you step in when I had already told you I was weak and fragile? Why did you stay just enough to keep me believing? Love cannot be forced, and I don’t want to beg for it. It is better to leave than to live in an illusion.

I never did things for you because of any title, expectation, or obligation—I did them because I love you. And my love would be the same, or even more, even if you lost everything. I didn’t love you because I was lonely. I loved you because I had a garden full of warmth and beauty, and I chose to make space for you in it. And yet, you did what you did. You treated my love as if it was something convenient, something flexible, something optional.

How do I justify this to myself so I can heal? How do I make peace with the fact that you took from me without ever intending to stay? Why do people hurt others when they aren’t sure? Why is it so hard to just tell the truth? Love is simple. It is evident. You cannot hide it, and you cannot force it. It is either there or it is not.

So if your intention was shallow, why not have the courage to tell me? I would have understood. I would have forgiven you. I would have forgiven myself. Instead, you left me questioning, waiting, wondering if I was not enough or if I had misread what was real. But I wasn’t wrong about my love. I only misjudged yours. And now, I have to learn to unlove you—not because I want to, but because I have to.

A Note to My Future Husband

If you are reading this, I want you to know—I am not perfect. But I am simple, easy to love, always available, and painfully honest. I won’t complicate things. I won’t play mind games. I will love you openly, without hesitation but with a few conditions.

You will find me in the kitchen, dancing in my cute socks, um! Come on it's cute! Wearing your oversized black t-shirt—probably making a mess, but I promise I’ll clean up. You cook dinner, I’ll do the dishes. You have to kill the cockroaches for me and I’ll save you from the neighbour's chaotic cat.

Tell me about your day. Let’s eat together a meal, at least and appreciate each other's efforts and complain about your boss, my boss, and that grumpy uncle who always stares too much. We will binge-watch cartoons, mostly Miyazaki’s.

I will be your personal stylist when you are too lazy to pick an outfit, but don’t you dare mess with my clothes. Your collectables are mine, but mine are not yours—this is non-negotiable. Tell me that I am beautiful even if I look homeless.

You have to be my mother when I have a fever and my father when I am stubborn because I don’t have both of them, I am fine otherwise. I am borrowing your mother forever, even if she bitches about me. I will tolerate it for the sake of the delicious food she makes.

But please, for the love of everything good in this world, do not put your wet towel on the bed. Do not hang your curled-up used underwear on the bathroom holder, or worse, throw it on the floor. Keep your books neat, all your shirts are mine, and mine are definitely not yours.

If I’m mad at you, kiss me. If I’m really mad at you, let me sit on your lap while I pretend to disown you. I am that simple. Just communicate with me, tell me when plans change, tell me if I am too moody to handle, pick up leaves for me when we go on walks, and take me to old book stacks, thrift stores, and museums.

Let's star gaze from our terrace for free and hug the trees and say “ Hayyooo!! Paaaahhh”. And one day, we are definitely going to the Japanese countryside during the cherry blossom season and to Georgia for Christmas.

I will always respect your space but let me wet your face with kisses when you open the door, don’t say that you are dirty. I will never try to own you, only love you. Don’t worry if I am unavailable I will be sleeping most of the time or playing with my thoughts on colours or pen, demand if you need me right now. Simple as that.

But if your actions stop aligning with your words, if I feel like I can’t trust what you say anymore, I will slowly drift away. Not as revenge, not as punishment—just because I lose interest in illusions.

Love should be effortless, not perfect. Just show up, be real, and let’s do this together.

Love.
Your wife.

Please take a U-turn if you are not up for this. Okay bye

There is something so profoundly beautiful about women loving each other. Not in a way the world often tries to frame it—competitive and conditional—but in the purest, most unfiltered way. The way we see each other, even when the world has tried to make us small.


I know what it’s like to feel invisible, to feel like no one is truly looking at you for who you are beyond what you can give, beyond what you are expected to be. It makes me so happy when I see women uplifting each other, hyping each other up in a world that constantly tells us to compete. The way we find joy in someone else’s glow, the way we remind each other of our power when we forget. It is real. It is love. It is safety.

There is something about a woman complimenting another woman that just feels different. Maybe it’s because we know the battles we fight inside—standing in front of mirrors, tearing ourselves apart, holding ourselves to impossible standards. So when another woman looks at you and says, You are radiant. You are enough, it hits differently. It’s like being pulled back to yourself, like a gentle hand on your back saying, I see you. I know. I’ve been there too.

Maybe because we know what it means to fight self-doubt, to shrink ourselves, to be told we are too much or not enough. Maybe that’s why when another woman genuinely sees you, it feels like she’s pulling you back to yourself.


And it’s not just women. Any person, of any gender, who appreciates others without hesitation, without needing someone else to shrink so they can feel bigger—that is the kind of energy I want to be around. But there is something undeniably special about women supporting women. The way we understand the unspoken. The way we stand beside each other, through the highs and the heartbreaks.

How we understand the need for gentle reassurance in a world that often demands us to be hard. I love seeing a woman light up when another tells her she looks beautiful. I love when strangers hype each other up in washrooms, when one says, That dress was made for you, or Your energy is stunning, and you can see that tiny moment of disbelief before it sinks in and sticks.


It breaks my heart that society has taught us to see each other as threats instead of reflections. But I refuse. I refuse to dim my light, and I refuse to be threatened by another woman’s brightness. I want to be the kind of person who makes others feel lighter, softer, safe. There is enough room, enough light, enough love for all of us. And nothing fills my heart more than seeing us finally, finally believe that. And I think the most beautiful thing we can do is remind each other of that.

Some nights, like this one, I find myself lost in thought—wondering if love has changed or if I’m simply out of place in the world it now belongs to.
People say there are plenty of fish in the sea, but no one talks about how fast they swim, how quickly they move from one tide to another, never really staying long enough to anchor. There’s a certain ease to it, I suppose.
No wasted time, no lingering sadness, no sinking too deep. Just a cycle of meeting, feeling, and moving on before things get too heavy. Maybe that’s good for them. Maybe it saves them from the weight of heartbreak, from sleepless nights, from feeling like love could alter the course of their whole life.

But me being me, I crave something else. Something slower, something deeper—like the old romance we read about. The kind where waiting at a bus stop just to steal a glance felt like enough.

Where love wasn’t measured in texts replied to within minutes but in the way someone made space for you in their heart, even in silence. A love that wasn’t about appearances or moods, but about quiet admiration, patience, and the effort to be seen and cherished. Not stalking, not forcing—just waiting.
But waiting is painful, isn’t it? Because when you invest your heart in something like this, you feel every ache more deeply. Casual love might be easier, but this kind of love—soulful love—demands everything. And in a world that no longer waits, I wonder if that’s asking for too much. If I am asking for too much.
Maybe it’s just the way I was shaped, being an old soul stuck between many different kinds of love—the one I knew and the rest I no longer recognise. Maybe I sound delusional to some, holding onto something that no longer fits the times. But writing about love isn’t desperation—it’s just an overflow of something I have within me. A kind of love that isn’t just about being with someone but about being held in a way that makes the world feel softer.

I don’t judge those who live differently, but I also don’t know if I can fully understand it yet. Maybe I will one day. Maybe time will change me, or maybe it will just help me find someone who feels the way I do.

Until then, I’ll keep writing, keep waiting, and keep believing that the love I long for isn’t impossible. Just rare.

You ask how to be happy, not just brave. Happiness, my Kanmani, is not in avoiding pain but in accepting the moments between it. In the first sip of coffee, in the laughter that spills out even when your heart is tired, in the way the sky blushes before the sun sets. It is in the food you cook, in the way you still light the lamp for me, in the hands that hold yours, even if only for a moment. Be soft. Believe in people, but not blindly—watch how they treat you in your quiet moments, not just in the loud ones. And when you are hurt, don’t let it make you bitter. Let it teach you who is worth your love.

And oh, the achar! Store it in clean, dry jars—no moisture, no careless fingers dipping in and out. Let the sun kiss it for a few days before tucking it away. Keep it safe, just as you keep me safe in your memories.

You ask how you look now. My child, you are beautiful. Not just in the way your face carries traces of the mother you lost, but in the way you love, in the way you long, in the way you still believe in warmth even when the world turns cold. But are you happy? That, I cannot tell. I see your little joys, your small victories, but I also see your tired heart. Take care of it, love. Let it rest sometimes. And yes, we are watching. Every little thing. Every tear wiped away in secret, every moment you smile when no one is watching. Every time you miss us, we are right there. And when will you meet us again? Ah, my love, that is not for you to decide. But not yet. Not yet.

This is Chakka season, and I know you miss Kumbilappam. I miss making it for you, too. But you are still here, and there is still sweetness to taste, warmth to hold, and love to find. And when it rains, wrap yourself in a blanket, close your eyes, and feel it—our touch, from the other side.

Stay, Kanmani. Stay a little longer.

— Your Ammi and Ammamma