When it hurts, it hurts deeply..

I don’t even know how to start this, except to say—I feel deeply hurt right now.

There was a time, not long ago, when I truly believed I was surrounded by people who cared. People I could trust. People who saw me. I gave them the most honest parts of myself. I loved them with everything I had. I didn’t play games. I didn’t hold back. I showed up. Every time.

And now, it feels like it was all a lie.

The same people I stood by… turned cold. Distant. Even cruel. It’s like they were just waiting for the right moment to twist the knife. And what hurts the most isn’t just what they did—it’s that they could. That maybe they never really saw me at all.

I’m someone who feels deeply. I love hard. I care, even when it’s inconvenient. I’ve never been good at pretending or holding back. I’m a free soul, and I’ve never thought twice about giving that to others. But right now? That feels like a mistake.

It’s painful to realize that not everyone deserves the kind of heart I have. That some people only show up to take, to use, to hurt. And honestly, I don’t know what to do with that yet. I just know I’m tired. Sad. Betrayed.

Still, even in this mess of emotions, I know this: I won’t let their actions turn me bitter. I won’t become what they are. I might be broken today, but I’m not gone. I’m still here. Still me. And I’ll keep being real, even if it hurts sometimes.

Because I’d rather hurt from loving too much than live numb and guarded like they do.

The One Thing

He asked me if there’s something I’ve wanted to buy for a long time.

I said I don’t know.

He seemed surprised. "How can you not know? There must be something you’ve wanted for a long time."
I smiled faintly. But how do I even begin to explain?

How do I tell him that I grew up not knowing how to want things? That in my house, wishes weren’t made—they were swallowed. That we lived in scarcity, not desperation. We weren’t starving, but we were always aware of limits. Aware of what we couldn't afford—not just financially, but emotionally too.

I was truly happy for my friends when they got new toys, clothes, or gifts from their parents. But I never allowed myself to wish for the same. I knew better. I knew not to ask. I knew not to hope. I knew that money went to bills, to essentials, to just getting by.

New clothes came on festivals, not whims. Birthdays were burden. Money had purpose, and that purpose was always necessity.
And so, I learned to adjust. Not just to live without, but to not even want.

That skill—adjusting—became a way of life. I carried it into adulthood, quiet and unassuming. But beneath it, something built up. Suppressed longings, unspoken wishes, untended parts of myself.
Now, sometimes I buy impulsively—not out of greed, but from those old echoes. From the child in me who never got to choose. Some long-denied joy. Some permission I never gave myself as a child.

So when he asks me, so earnestly, what it is that I’ve always wanted to buy—

I pause and think about it.

Because truthfully, I don’t long for an object. Nothing shiny or wrapped or tagged in a price. I long for something I never had the chance to name back then.

If I had to answer honestly, I’d say:

It was love.

It was softness.

It was the space to want- without guilt.

And that’s something I knew you cannot buy.