The B Side

Hey, I’ve written a few letters and never sent them or published them. Most of the time, I burn them just to keep myself warm. This one feels different. I hope you see it before I lose my nerve and press delete. I could skip the part where I tell you how much I miss you after 394 days since I last saw you. It sounds ridiculous, and it feels even more ridiculous to still be carrying this. But here it is anyway. You once talked about us writing a book. Of course, you remember. Your memory was always better than mine. I did it. I wrote the book. I printed the first version and put it in an envelope. I can call you my favourite story, but I can’t call you. The envelope has your name on it. I promised myself I wouldn’t use it to stir embers that never really went out. It’s your story too. Those pages hold the most blissful time I’ve known in a long while. I don’t know if you’ll ever read it, but I hope you do. This isn’t just words on a page; it’s the proof that what we lived was real. I d...

I  couldn’t sleep, imagining the weight of our embrace after so long without you.

It is a strange pleasure to feel that someone can reach for me without ever being reachable. All doors are shut, yet the page remains open, a hollow echo, a shadow of absence. Sad, isn’t it? Let courage rise, let honesty speak without disguise. Would you? Would you dare admit the longing that cannot be described, the ache that hides behind walls of silence? If words are all we have, let them be a lifeline. Stop the quiet that cuts deep. A voice can save what fear is suffocating. Not answers, not promises, just sound breaking the dark. If this is a call for help, let it be answered with urgency. The sound of your voice can save my life.

A new year, a diagnosis, and whole chapters to be written. I think I am ok.

It's Sunday, the sun is out, and the air is cold. Winter is definitely here. I walk along the canal, my phone playing Billie Eilish. I'm taking myself for a coffee. Large latte with an extra shot, please. While I wait, I watch the wind scatter the last leaves on an already naked tree. People pass, wrapped in their own thoughts, and I wonder where they might be heading. Does it matter? Well, maybe it does, for a busy mind like mine. I smile gently at some child and make my way back home. Back inside, the door clicks shut, and the quiet settles. The cup warms my hands, the song fades, and the day feels smaller in a good way. Nothing has changed, yet something has eased. I place the coffee on the counter, breathe once, and let the afternoon arrive carrying two new chapters for the book I’m writing. And for the first time in a long while, I let myself be whole again.