Golden Hours

Just a few years ago, I used to be so afraid to step into the light. The sunbeams danced on my skin as I sat beneath the old oak tree. It's hard to believe how far I've come. Now, I feel like I'm truly living.   I remember the days when a shadowy figure that lurked in the corners of my mind. Every misstep felt like a world-ending catastrophe. The fear of judgment, of failure, of not being enough. It was a heavy cloak that I carried, weighing me down with its strangling grasp.   But then a miracle occurred. You saw the potential that I couldn't yet discern. "But look at you now," you teased, your eyes sparkling with admiration. A blush warmed my cheeks.   We sat together, and I felt a profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for this unflinching friendship, for your gentle nudges, and for your belief in me even when I doubted myself. You've shown me that it's okay to make mistakes.    Today, I'm not afraid to be myself. To embrace my quirks and imperf...

The constant push and pull, the silent treatments, the hurtful words. I used to see you as my hero. But now, all I see is a man who deliberately makes things difficult for me.   You know exactly what you're doing. You set these impossible hurdles, pushing me to my breaking point just so you can see me crumble. I'm so tired of this sh*t!   The irony of it all is as bitter as unripened fruit. I found myself entangled in your twisted game. You would lay out the pieces. Then, I would find myself drawn into your labyrinthine design.   I'm supposed to write about love, yet I've never truly felt it from you. I've only seen it on the pages of books, on silver screens, in the way couples hold hands. I heard it whispered in countless songs and in the lyrics that paint pictures of affection I could only envy. It's all just a facade.   I guess I could try to fake it. But deep down, I know it wouldn't be genuine. It would be a hollow imitation.   Oh, can love truly exist...

One wrong turn, one missed deadline, one bad grade—it could all derail my carefully constructed plans. College applications loom over me like monstrous shadow. My parents mean well. They push me towards careers with "stability." But what if stability means a lifetime of soul-crushing monotony?   The pressure to carve out a meaningful life is unbearable. Everyone seems to have their lives figured out. They're talking about internships at prestigious firms, mapping out their career paths like it's some kind of game. And I'm still adrift like a leaf caught in the current. Unsure where I'm going or even if I'm going in the right direction.   I crave something more than just a paycheck. I dream of far-off lands, bustling cities, and the ocean's endless expanse. I see myself as a writer, spinning tales that transport readers to other worlds. But writing is such a precarious path. No guarantees. No steady income. Just the constant fear of failure.   I long fo...