just realized how I can map out every place I once found comfort—like that one bookstore I sat in alone, stacks of novels my only company—but honestly, now the books feel like strangers too. I scroll through my contacts, hundreds of names popping up like party balloons at a celebration I was never invited to. I don't even recognize most of them. this isolation creeps in, and I wonder, do I literal...
nobody talks about the sheer weight of pretending everything is fine when you are living on the edge. ya, life feels like an endless cycle of social media anniversaries and celebrations that I can't afford. while everyone is posting about their "blessed" lives, I'm here skipping meals to make it through the month, wondering if that guilt I feel for being broke will ever go away. on the outside, pe...