In My Own World

Life has a way of surprising us—not always in the way we hope. One day, the people we love are full of life—healthy, smiling, and so full of energy that we forget to worry. We take comfort in the routine of seeing them well, and it never really crosses our minds that anything could change.   Then, in a heartbeat, everything shifts. You get a call or hear a diagnosis, and suddenly, the person who seemed invincible just yesterday is lying in a hospital bed, looking so frail and worn. It feels unfair, like the world has pulled a cruel trick on you. And just like that, your mind races with everything left unsaid, all the memories that feel too heavy to carry alone.   You find yourself staring at their hands, remembering how they used to move with ease and purpose. Now they’re still—weak and fragile. You wonder how this happened so fast. The room is filled with doctors, machines, and worried faces, but what sticks with you most is the feeling of helplessness, like sand slipping thr...

For 12 years, I waited for this—my *working girl era*. And now that I’m here, despite the sleepless nights and the exhaustion that comes with it, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.   I know what it feels like to be unemployed. It has its perks—I could sleep whenever I wanted, wake up with no alarms, and have all the time and energy to go out without a second thought. There was a certain freedom in having complete control over my time, in being able to pause and breathe whenever I wanted. But at the same time, there was also a lingering feeling of restlessness, a sense of being stuck in place while the world kept moving forward.   Now, I have a job. My days are no longer just a cycle of waking up, scrolling through my phone, and wondering what to do next. There's structure, a reason to get up in the morning, and tasks that give me a sense of accomplishment. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not wasting my time doing nothing. Somehow, my life has found a sense of...

I’ve always said I wouldn’t want to marry or have a family of my own. It’s a belief I’ve spoken out loud countless times, something I’ve convinced myself I stand by. And yet, if I dig a little deeper, there’s another part of me—the one that secretly wonders, the one that still holds onto a quiet hope.   Maybe it’s because I’m a hopeless romantic. A sucker for love stories that unfold in the most cinematic ways, like the ones Nicholas Sparks so effortlessly weaves into books that leave me teary-eyed at 2 AM. I love the idea of love—the way it transforms ordinary moments into something magical, the way it makes people believe in forever.   But reality isn’t always as poetic. Love doesn’t come knocking just because we hope it will. Some people find their person easily, while others spend their lives searching. And then there are those, like me, who have made peace with the fact that maybe, just maybe, love isn’t part of their story.   It’s not a bitter realization, nor is it...