Isn’t it strange that how a single sentence can follow you around for a year? It just sits there in the back of your mind waiting for the quiet moments when the world slows down.

In Hayao Miyazaki’s film “The Wind Rises” we follow Jiro Horikoshi. He is a man who doesn’t want power or glory. He just wants to build something beautiful. But he lives in a time where the air is heavy with the coming of war and the shadows of poverty. ⊹

At the heart of his journey is a line that sticks to the soul:

“ The wind is rising!… We must try to live!”

We can almost carry that line like a small heavy stone in our pocket. At first it sounds like simple advice to me. But the more you sit with it the more it feels like a secret conversation.

When we talk about the wind, we think of something moving or shaking the trees. In Jiro’s world the wind is everything we cannot catch. It is the time that slips through our fingers.

To say “the wind is rising” is to admit that things are changing. Jiro spends his days sketching the curves of a bird’s wing. He dreams of planes that look like art. He says that “airplanes are beautiful dreams” and that engineers turn those dreams into reality.

But the wind of his era was dark. It brought a massive earthquake and a war that turned his graceful designs into machines of destruction. It is the realization that the world is much bigger than us. It moves at its own pace like indifferent to whether we are ready. ✉︎

And then comes the second part, “We must live on.”

It doesn’t say we must be perfect. It just says we must live. There is something so raw about that choice. It implies that living is an effort. It means that even when the sky turns gray we still wake up.

This is most clear in Jiro’s love for Nahoko. Their romance is like a paper plane caught in a tree. She is ill and is slowly fading away from life even as their love grows.

There is a quiet, beautiful scene, where Jiro works on his planes with one hand, while holding Nahoko’s hand with the other. He is caught between his dream of flight and the heartbeat of the woman he loves. He knows he is losing her. Yet he chooses to cherish every second. He chooses to live in that wind. ✈︎

His planes eventually fly, but they fly into a world that wasn’t as pure as his sketches. Still, he didn’t stop. He had to see the dream through, because that is what being human is.

When I think back and forth on this maybe it’s because I feel that same wind. We all have moments where we feel small against the horizon. We feel the draft under the door and I know tomorrow won’t be the same.

But if the wind is always going to rise, our only job is to stay standing. There is no grand secret or genius trick to make the wind stop blowing.

You just have to decide every single morning that the air is still worth breathing. You have to believe that the beauty of the flight is worth the risk of the fall.

So we hold onto what is dear and let the wind carry us. We don’t need a map. We just need to stay present in the movement of it all. It is a simple promise that the wind is restless and so are we. We choose to keep walking ,turning every breath into a quiet act of courage.

“The world is moving, and so am I.”

✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚

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No Time — Publication

“ A Haiku I love ~ ” was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Jekyll and Hyde

Jekyll and Hyde.

That’s what we are. And honestly, the funny part is… we act like we’re not.

Like we’re one fixed personality. One stable version. One clean identity that makes sense all the time. Which is kind of impressive considering how fast that illusion breaks the moment something slightly off happens.

Because suddenly you react differently. Think differently. Say something you normally wouldn’t. And then you sit there like, where did that even come from?

Yeah. That’s your Hyde.

But this whole “Jekyll and Hyde” thing didn’t just appear randomly. It comes from a book called “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” by “Robert Louis Stevenson”. Old book, short story, but somehow still relevant in a way that’s slightly uncomfortable.

The story itself is not complicated. There’s this man, Dr. Jekyll. Respectable, well-liked, and all composed. The kind of person people trust without questioning too much. Very put-together on the outside.

But inside he has this idea that people aren’t just one thing. That we’re made of different parts that don’t exactly match. And instead of dealing with that like a normal person he decides to… separate them.

Yes. Literally.

But the plot twist is that Jekyll and Hyde, both are just two different personalities belonging to the same person.

So he creates this experiment, drinks something, and becomes Mr. Hyde. And Hyde is basically everything Jekyll keeps under control. No filters, no hesitation, no “should I or shouldn’t I.” Just pure action without thinking twice.

At first Jekyll is kind of okay with it. Actually more than okay. Because Hyde gets to do things without consequences attaching to Jekyll’s name. It’s like having a backup version of yourself to dump all your bad decisions into.

Convenient, right?

Yeah. Not for long.

Because Hyde doesn’t stay small. He doesn’t stay “just a side version.” He starts becoming stronger. Shows up more. Takes over more than Jekyll planned. And at some point, Jekyll doesn’t even need the experiment anymore.

It just… happens.

And that’s when it stops being interesting and starts being terrifying.

Because now it’s not about control anymore. It’s about losing it.

The story ends badly. Obviously. Jekyll realizes he can’t separate himself the way he thought he could. Hyde isn’t some detachable part he can switch off. He’s still him. Just without the control.

So in the end Jekyll chooses to end everything rather than live as something he can’t control anymore.

And honestly that’s the part where the story quietly turns into something real.

Because if you remove all the science and drama, what’s left is a very simple idea.

“I don’t think people become different. I think they just stop hiding certain parts of themselves.”

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

We don’t suddenly turn into someone else. There’s no magical switch. No dramatic transformation.

“We don’t turn into someone else. We just become a version we kept hidden.”

That version was always there. Just managed. Controlled. Adjusted depending on where you are and who you’re around.

And most of the time it works.

But the moment you try to pretend that one part of you doesn’t exist at all that’s when things start getting weird.

Because it doesn’t disappear. It just waits.

“Maybe the problem was never Hyde. Maybe it was the idea that Hyde could be separated at all.”

That line makes the whole story feel less like fiction and more like a warning.

Jekyll didn’t create something new. He just gave something space to exist without limits.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

The truth is people are not as simple as we like to believe. There’s always more than one version of you. Not fake versions. Not “different personalities.” Just different sides that show up depending on the moment. And everyone does behave differently based on the perspective of how others are behaving around you.

The calm one.
The impatient one.
The version that thinks before speaking.
And the version that definitely does not.

And none of them are fake.

So yeah, Jekyll and Hyde isn’t really about becoming someone else.

It’s just about realizing you were never just one person to begin with.

And maybe the real problem isn’t having both sides.

It’s pretending that you don’t.

"Jekyll & Hyde Paradox" was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The name Moonbin is indeed beautiful in its own way. It is a kind of reminder that even in the vast cold vacuum of space there is something glowing watching over us and reminding us to be kind to one another.

There is something so quiet and heavy about the name Moonbin. It sounds like a secret whispered at night. We talk about the moon as if it is just a rock in the sky but it is actually the only thing that stays with us when the sun gives up and goes away. He was like that. He was the kind of person who felt like he was holding the light for all of us, even when the night got too long.

It has been three years now. People say time heals but I think time just teaches us how to carry the weight without falling over. Today feels heavy. It feels like looking at an empty chair and still expecting someone to sit down.Even I was not an ASTROfan it is hard to explain why it hurts this much to someone who wasn’t there. They didn’t see the beautiful chaos of those six boys just being themselves. They didn’t see the way he would laugh until he couldn’t breathe, or the way he looked at his members like they were his entire world. ASTRO wasn’t just a group, as much as I get it, they were a home he built with his own hands, and seeing that home change is a pain that is hard to put into words.

"The stars are not lost, they are just waiting for the sky to turn dark enough for us to see them again."

I saw the way he moved those beautiful sharp lines in his dance that felt like poetry written in the air. But I also saw the small human things. The way he ate with so much joy, his cat-like expressions, and the way he would look at the crowd during a concert as if he wanted to memorize every single one of our faces. We were his stars, and he was our moon. It was a perfect, quiet universe we had. Now, that universe feels a little colder. It is strange how someone you have never met can leave such a large, empty space in your heart, but that is the price of a love that was real.

He was so human. That is the part that aches the most today. He wasn’t just a star on a screen he was a brother who loved too much, a friend who worked too hard, and a soul that was perhaps too soft for a world this loud. He once told his fans to be happy but today I think none of them is happy. It is a way of honoring how much he mattered. We are all just people standing under the same sky, looking for the same moon, hoping that wherever he is, he knows that his light didn’t go out. It just changed. It is in the old videos of the members teasing each other, it is in the songs we can’t always listen to yet without crying, and it is in the way we still say his name with so much love.

Rest well, Moonbin. The sky is yours now but we are still here keeping your memory warm. To us you are never gone; you are just in the light of the moon.

"The moon does not mourn the sun, it simply waits to reflect the light again."

Three years later, the moon is still full. The light is still here. And we are still looking up.

Rest well, our Moon. Your light is eternal.

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No Time — Publication

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April, Again.

“Some seasons don’t arrive gently. They return with memory.”

There’s something about spring that people trust too easily. That’s what I think.

The moment the air softens and the sunlight lingers a little longer as if everyone agrees that things are getting better. The trees begin to hold color again, flowers open like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment, and the world carries that quiet promise of renewal.

It looks comforting.

Like a page being turned without effort.

And maybe for some people it really feels that way.

But April has never been just a season to me. It doesn’t pass like something light. It settles slowly, like a thought that refuses to leave even when you’re not paying attention to it.

There are days when the sky looks unusually clear, the kind of blue that feels endless and for a second, it almost feels peaceful. The breeze moves gently, not asking for anything, just existing the way it’s supposed to, maybe. And in moments like that I do understand why people call this time beautiful.

But beauty, I’ve realized, doesn’t always feel the same to everyone.

Somewhere along the way April became something else for me.

A few years ago, I lost someone during this month. Someone too important. Someone too needed.

And not in a way of losing from my life. But rather losing the person in a deep slumber. And also in a way that didn’t gave me time to prepare, not in a way that made sense slowly. It happened the way certain things do like quietly and suddenly at the same time leaving behind a space that doesn’t quite close.

Since then April hasn’t really come empty.

It brings things with it. In a way that exists beneath the surface, like a second layer to the season that only I seem to notice.

It brings memories with it. Both good and bad ones. And I have read somewhere that —

“ Sad memories are good but Happy memories hurts the most. ”

It’s strange how the same sunlight that warms the world can feel distant at the same time. Like standing in a field of blooming flowers and still feeling like something is missing, something that no amount of color can replace.

I think that’s the part no one talks about. So I does.

That seasons don’t arrive the same way for everyone. That a month filled with beginnings for some can quietly carry endings for others.

And both can exist at the same time without canceling each other out, maybe. Who knows ?

There are moments when I almost forget. When something small catches my attention like the way leaves move when the wind passes through them or how the evening light settles softly over everything. In those moments it feels like I’m part of the season again like nothing is out of place.

But memory is a patient.

It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t force itself. It simply waits and then it appears in the middle of something ordinary. Not enough to break the moment just enough to change its meaning.

Like a shadow that follows light without asking.

I’ve stopped trying to understand it completely. Some things don’t need to be explained to be real. They just need to be acknowledged for what they are.

April still looks the same. The world still responds to it the way it always has. Flowers bloom, people step outside, life moves forward without hesitation.

Nothing about the season has changed.

But the way I stand in it has.

And maybe that’s what time really does. It doesn’t take things away as much as it changes the way they return to you.

“Not every spring feels like a beginning. Some feel like something that stayed.”

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Quirky Rants — A Publication!

When April Returns. was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Things changed too early, too suddenly.

There’s a small corner in a mall I visit sometimes.
It’s meant for children. Bright walls, soft flooring, small chairs, and a board where stories are told with drawings. I used to walk past it without really paying attention. It was just another place filled with noise and small laughter.
Until one day I stopped.

I don’t know why.
Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I needed to sit somewhere without thinking too much. I stood there for a while, watching the empty board, the scattered colors, the quiet space before the children arrived.
And for some reason I thought of a story.
That night, after going back home, I sat down with a few sheets of paper. I drew simple illustrations with soft, bright colors. Small figures. A forest. A house in the middle of it.Just enough to tell something.
The next day, I went back.
A few children gathered around. Some sat properly, some didn’t. Some were listening, some were just there because others were. I picked up the first page and placed it on the board.
And I began.
It was a simple story.
“Once upon a long, long time ago….

There were seven animals living together in a house at the center of a forest.
An orange cat, an angry cat, a golden retriever, a white puppy, a fox, a duck, and a Deer .

They lived together.They stayed together. They ate together, often talking over each other, sometimes arguing over small things that didn’t really matter. Someone would always interrupt, someone would always laugh, and somehow it all made sense.
They walked through the forest without thinking much about where they were going. They only noticed each other. If one slowed down, the rest slowed down too. If one stopped, the rest turned back.
There was one place they returned to often.
A large tree at the edge of the forest, where the land slowly opened into a quiet valley. They would sit there together, side by side, watching the sky change as the sun went down. No one really spoke much during those moments.

They never imagined being anything but seven.

The orange cat was always full of energy, moving from one place to another, bringing life into even the most ordinary moments. The angry cat was loud and sharp at times, always working, always doing something, but the way it looked after the others made it clear how deeply it cared. The golden retriever carried a quiet kindness, the kind that didn’t need to be noticed to exist. The white puppy was unpredictable, sometimes playful and funny, sometimes completely lost in its own thoughts. The fox smiled the most, soft and warm, with a presence that made everything feel lighter. The duck was the smallest, always trying to act tough, but never really able to hide how soft it was inside.
And then there was the deer.
The oldest among them. The one who had seen more of the world than the rest. The one they all respected without ever needing to say it out loud. The deer was calm, steady, and gentle in a way that made others feel safe. It never showed its own pain, never spoke about its own struggles. Not because it didn’t have any, but because it never wanted to become a burden or make the others worry.

Until one day bad happened.

The deer was gone.

At first, it didn’t feel real. It felt like something temporary, something that would correct itself if they just waited long enough. But as time passed, the absence stayed exactly where it was.
The forest didn’t stay silent.
Other animals began to notice. Some felt uneasy, some felt genuinely sad. A few tried to search for the deer, forming small groups, going deeper into the forest, calling out, hoping for something to answer back.
Some came to the house, standing near the six of them, offering help, offering words that didn’t quite fit the situation but came from a place of concern.

Some simply watched from a distance, carrying a quiet kind of pity.
But the six animals never showed anything.
They smiled. They responded. They continued their days. They still ate together. They still walked through the forest. They still returned to that same tree by the valley.
The place didn’t change. The view didn’t change.

One evening, as they sat under that tree, watching the sunset like they always did, the silence stretched a little longer than usual.
No one said much.
And then the angry cat said in a voice that was calmer than usual “Every beautiful thing has their end.”

And that’s where the story ends,” I said turning the page.

The story sounded simple but it wasn’t.

Some children stood up immediately, running back to their parents. Some laughed, some forgot the story as quickly as it ended, moving toward something else to play with.
The space slowly emptied but I sat there with the drawing booklet in my lap staring at it as I slowly turn one more last page…..

“ It was never about animal kingdom.”

A small tear fell onto the page, blurring the ink slightly.

I miss the deer.

Those six miss the deer.

✧・゜・。

痛みはあって
やがて薄れて
そして過ぎていった

それでも世界は 静かに続いていく
まるで 何ひとつ 無駄じゃなかったかのように

。・゜・✧

{[ Author’s Note — 
➝ I know this might be a little difficult to read in Japanese, and I’m sorry for that…but I wanted to keep it in the language it was first felt in, the one that feels most like home to me. Even so, I hope the feeling still reaches you. ]}

Friendship.
Friendship they say?
What is friendship?
It’s a word we hear so often that we rarely stop to think about what it really means. Some people say friendship is about loyalty. Others say it’s about laughter, shared memories, late-night conversations, and having someone who understands you even when you don’t say much.
For some, friendship is easy. It comes naturally. They meet people, they connect, and the bond simply grows over time.
For me, friendship has always felt a little different.
I was never the most social person growing up. I didn’t have a large circle of people around me, and I was never someone who could easily walk into a room and make ten new friends. But the few friendships I did have meant a lot to me. When I cared about someone, I cared deeply. I valued those connections more than I probably showed.
I used to believe that one day I would have that kind of friendship people talk about so casually, the kind that begins somewhere in your early life and somehow survives everything that comes after. The kind where two people simply grow older alongside each other, from childhood to growing wrinkles on their faces.
But somewhere along the way, that idea started feeling distant.
There was someone named Kevin.
We never met in person. Not even once. Yet somehow, that never made the friendship feel any less real. Our conversations started simply, like most friendships do. A few messages here and there, small talks that slowly turned into longer conversations. Over time, he became someone I would talk to almost every day.
It was strange in a way, how someone you had never seen face to face could still become such a familiar presence in your life.
The friendship felt easy. Comfortable. Natural. Worth trusting.
And then one day, everything changed. Not a good change.
Kevin died.

Yes, he died.It’s a strange thing to lose someone you’ve never physically met, because part of the world doesn’t really recognize that loss the same way. But grief doesn’t measure distance like that. When someone becomes part of your life, even through conversations and shared thoughts, their absence still leaves a quiet space behind.
After that, I stopped making friends for a while.
Not intentionally at first. But it just happened. Conversations felt worthless, connections felt uncertain, and something inside me became more cautious than before. For almost a year, I avoided forming new friendships altogether.

Eventually life does what it always does , it moves forward whether we’re ready or not. I began meeting people again, talking again, slowly letting others into my life.

One friendship began to grow and slowly became closer to my heart. For a while it felt like maybe things were finally normal again.
Then a crack appeared between us.
And I lost her too.

Another friend came later, but there wasn’t much progress in that friendship either. It ended with her saying, it was simply a waste of time because we never built a deeper bond.

But something had changed in the way I saw friendship.
Some friendships started well and slowly faded. Some ended because of misunderstandings. Some simply disappeared with time. And sometimes the endings felt sudden, almost unexpected.
At some point, I began noticing something.

I noticed a frequent pattern in friendships. Whoever I became friends with somehow ended up in a very bad way, or at least not in a good one.
I started noticing how their lives seemed to change after I entered them. Sometimes they had perfectly normal, healthy, and positive lives before. But once I became part of their story, something always seemed to shift.
And slowly a question started growing inside my mind.
“Was it me who led their life into a negative path from something that was once good and stable?”

“Was I unlucky for all of them?”

“Did my presence somehow bring bad endings into their lives?”

“Was I a bad omen?”
I kept asking these questions again and again, even till this day. But no matter how much I thought about it, the answers never came.
And in the end, I slowly stopped believing that something like a long-lasting friendship could exist in my case.

Those questions started appearing so often than I liked to admit it was me.
Sometimes it felt like being a witch in medieval times, the kind people avoided because they believed misfortune followed her. Not because she had done anything wrong, but because people believed bad things seemed to happen wherever she went.
And I began wondering if I was something like that.

Loss changes how you hold people. It makes you cautious about the closeness you once welcomed so easily. What used to feel warm and simple begins to feel fragile.

But the wish I had as a child, the wish of having a friend who grows old with me,still exists somewhere in my mind. But it has remained just that.

A wish.

I stopped trying to build deep friendships all over again.
Not because I dislike people.
Not because I don’t value friendship.

Not because I am rude.
Not because I hate being around people.
But because I have seen what happens when I try to get close.

Maybe it’s an irrational thought. Maybe it’s just grief and coincidence shaping the way I see things. I don’t really know.

Maybe this sounds strange to others. Maybe some people would even find it funny. But, to me it felt like that always.

A bad omen.

Even if I blame myself or try not to, I still cannot gather the courage to build deep friendships again.
Because I cannot watch someone’s life take a negative turn because of me.
I cannot see people breaking down because of me.
I cannot see people getting hurt just because of me.

So, I stopped being friends with ithers just beacuse it was always about them not me.

–»A small note to Kevin :

“Sometimes I still wonder what kind of life you would have lived if you were still here.
I wonder what kind of person you would have grown into, what things would have made you happy, and what kind of dreams you would have chased as the years passed. Time has a strange way of changing people, shaping them slowly through experiences, mistakes, and quiet moments of growth. Sometimes I find myself thinking about the version of you that might have existed today if life had allowed you to stay.
I also wonder if we would still be talking the way we once did. Maybe the conversations would have changed with time, maybe they would have become less frequent as life became busier, but I like to believe that somewhere in between everything, there would still have been those small moments where we checked in on each other, just like before.
The strange thing about losing someone is that life continues moving forward, even when a part of your mind remains stuck in the moment they disappeared. And the worst thing about death is not death itself, but thw parting it brings. New days come, new experiences happen, and people keep growing older. Yet certain memories refuse to age in the same way.
Your absence became one of those memories for me.
And even now, somewhere quietly in my mind, the friendship we once had still exists, just the way it was.”

— River, with love ♡.

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No Time — Publication

"I don't make friends anymore." was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sometimes people ask me why I’m not in a relationship.
Why I’m not in love.
Why I’ve never been.

And I usually just smile, say “no,” and get extremely quiet because what would you even say to that? How do you explain that for some people, love isn’t curiosity or attraction or something you casually fall into. It isn’t entertainment. It isn’t something you pick up when you’re bored and put down when it gets inconvenient.

For me, love is not a phase.
It’s not a show.
And it’s definitely not temporary.

Love, to me, is sacred. And sacred things are not rushed.

I think a lot of people confuse attention with affection, and intensity with intimacy. They think liking someone means loving them, and loving someone means keeping them. But I don’t work like that. I’ve never worked like that. I don’t fall easily, not because I’m cold, but because I feel deeply. And deep feelings deserve depth in return.

I don’t want half-love.
I don’t want unsure-love.
I don’t want almost-love.

I want real love.

And that’s why I stay quiet when people ask. Because explaining this sounds dramatic in a world that treats love casually. But to me, love is not something you “try out.” It’s not something you test and discard and replace. It’s not something you say and then unsay.

Love is something you enter knowing it will change you.

I’ve always known one thing about myself is that I will never fall in love easily.
But the day I do, I won’t give up. I won’t walk away at the first difficulty. I won’t treat it like something replaceable. I won’t say “I love you” and then move on to someone else when it gets hard or quiet or inconvenient.

Because love, real love , is not disposable.

If I ever love a boy, it will be once.
And deeply.
And with everything I have.

Not because I believe in perfection or fairy tales, but because I believe love is rare. And rare things are not handled lightly. Rare things are not experimented with. Rare things are not wasted.

Some people think this way of loving is unrealistic. Too intense. Too serious. Too old-fashioned. But I don’t think love was ever meant to be casual. I think love was meant to be careful. I think it was meant to be steady. I think it was meant to be something that makes you softer, not smaller. Something that makes you calmer, not anxious.

Love, to me, is not butterflies.
It’s breathing. It’s not excitement.
It’s safety. It’s not show off.
It’s peace.

And I think the reason I don’t fall easily is because my heart doesn’t want drama, it wants home.

I don’t want someone who loves loudly but leaves quietly. I don’t want someone who feels deeply one day and distant the next. I don’t want someone who confuses attachment with affection. I want someone who loves consistently, even when nothing romantic is happening. Someone who chooses me not just when I’m glowing, but when I’m tired, quiet, uninteresting, or undone.

Because love isn’t proven in moments of excitement.
It’s proven in moments of stillness.

Sometimes I listen to songs and feel things I can’t explain, not because I relate to a story, but because I relate to the emotion of it. And one song that does this to me is “her” by JVKE. It doesn’t feel like a love song to me. It feels like a love language. There comes a lyric like —

“I just wanna feel alive. With you, I am alive.”

And something about that line hits me deeply. Not in a dramatic way. In a quiet way. Because that’s exactly how I imagine love. Not as something overwhelming, but as something awakening. Not as something that consumes you, but as something that makes you feel more like yourself.

If I ever want to be loved, I want to be loved like that.

I don’t want grand gestures that disappear when life gets ordinary. I don’t want words that sound beautiful but don’t stay. I don’t want affection that exists only in moments of romance but vanishes in moments of reality.

There’s something rare about soft love in this generation.

We live in a world of fast connections, fast attachments, fast endings. People fall quickly and leave quicker. People want the feeling of love, not the responsibility of it. People want intensity without intimacy, passion without patience, attention without commitment.

And I don’t blame them, this world teaches us to protect ourselves. To stay guarded. To not feel too much. To not care too deeply. To always have options. To never risk being hurt.

But I don’t want a love built on escape plans.

I want a love where I don’t have to wonder if I’m replaceable.
I want a love where I don’t have to shrink to be chosen.
I want a love where my heart doesn’t feel like it’s auditioning.

I want a love that feels like certainty — not excitement, not obsession, not adrenaline — but calm. The kind of calm that lets you breathe without bracing. The kind of calm that lets you sleep without fear. The kind of calm that feels like safety, not silence.

“I don’t want the heavens or the shooting stars. I want a steady hand. A kind soul.”

And I think that describes everything I want from love.

Someone who loves in small ways, in everyday ways, in the quiet ways that don’t make stories but make homes.

Because romance, to me, is not flowers or gifts or declarations. It’s someone saving you the last piece of cake without mentioning it. It’s someone pausing their favorite show just to hear about your day. It’s someone holding your hand when you’re scared without asking why. It’s someone choosing you again and again, especially when nothing exciting is happening.

Romance isn’t loud.
It’s loyal.

And loyalty is rare now.

Sometimes people ask if I’m scared of love.
But the truth is, I’m not scared of love, I’m scared of loving something that isn’t real. I’m scared of pouring depth into something shallow. I’m scared of giving my heart to something temporary.

Because love, to me, is not something you recover from easily. It’s not something you walk away from unchanged. It’s not something you forget how to feel.

When I love, I will love with intention.
When I love, I will love with permanence.
When I love, I will love knowing that this is not a game.

And that’s why I wait.

Not because I don’t feel.
But because I feel too much to settle.
“If I ever fall in love, and it stays, then it will be love.
If I ever fall in love, and it leaves, then it will be a love story.
And if it never even begins , then it will be a poem.”

Like this one.

Because some loves don’t need to be lived to be real. Some loves exist in longing, in imagination, in music, in writing, in the quiet corners of the heart where hope lives gently instead of loudly.

And I think that’s okay.

I don’t need love right now.
I’m not desperate for it.
I’m not searching for it in everyone I meet.

I’m just waiting for it to walk in my life peacefully.

Waiting for someone whose presence feels like peace instead of pressure. Waiting for someone whose love feels like rest instead of effort. Waiting for someone who doesn’t make love feel like something I have to earn, prove, or compete for.

Because love should not feel like anxiety.
It should feel like safety.

And maybe this kind of love feels rare in this generation. Maybe it feels outdated. Maybe it feels unrealistic. But I don’t think love was ever meant to be easy, it was meant to be real.

And real things take time.

So when people ask why I’m not in a relationship, I smile and stay quiet, not because I have nothing to say, but because what I believe about love doesn’t fit into casual conversation.

It fits into music.
It fits into writing.
It fits into moments like this.

I don’t know whom I’ll love someday.
I don’t know when. I just know how.

But i wish someday someone will….

“Do You Want to Be Loved the Way I Dream Of?” was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We are taught that dreams are fragile things, that if we let go of one, something in us must have broken.

But what if that isn’t true?

What if some dreams don’t end because we weren’t capable, but because life simply turned another way?

There’s a strange kind of sadness that comes from walking away from something you once loved deeply. Not because it rejected you. But because you had to. And no one really talks about this kind of loss. The loss of a future you imagined so clearly that it almost felt real. The loss of a version of yourself you were quietly becoming.

For me, that dream was Astronomy.

Space wasn’t just a subject. It was comfort. It was the first thing I loved without knowing why. As a child, I didn’t look at the sky and think of careers or achievements. I just felt calm. The moon felt gentle. The stars felt close. Galaxies didn’t feel distant. They felt like something I belonged to.

I loved how quiet space was. How vast. How patient. I loved how it didn’t rush me. How it didn’t demand answers immediately. Studying astronomy never felt like ambition. It felt like peace. Like warmth. Like something inside me settling into place.

People assume we love certain things because of fame, money, or how impressive they sound. But sometimes, we love something because it feels safe. Because it makes the world feel less loud. Because when everything feels uncertain, that one thing feels steady. I didn’t want space because it was cool. I wanted it because I saw myself in it.

And yet, for many reasons, I won’t be able to study it the way I dreamed.

Not because I stopped loving it.
Not because I failed.
Not because I didn’t try hard enough.

Just because life doesn’t always move in the direction our hearts do.

This is the part no one prepares you for. We learn how to handle rejection. We learn how to handle failure. But we don’t learn how to handle loving something deeply and still not getting it. We don’t learn how to sit with the sentence, “It won’t happen,” when there’s no villain, no mistake, no dramatic reason. Just reality.

And manifestation culture makes this harder. We’re told that if you want something badly enough, it will come. That belief creates hope, but it also creates quiet guilt. Because what about the people whose dreams didn’t work out, even though they wanted them with their whole hearts?

What about students who loved learning but still had to walk away from what they loved most?

No one really talks about them.

As students, especially, this kind of loss feels hard to explain. Because it’s not just about a career. It’s about years of curiosity. Late nights. Notes in the margins. Imagining yourself somewhere you’ve never been but somehow already miss. When you love studying something, truly love it, losing that dream doesn’t feel like changing plans. It feels like losing a language you once spoke fluently.

And the hardest part is explaining it to others.

How do you explain that you didn’t want it for success, but for softness?
That you didn’t want it for recognition, but for peace?
That you didn’t want it to look impressive, but to feel right?

People understand ambition.
They understand competition.
They understand goals.

They don’t always understand love.

Sometimes I think what hurts most isn’t that I won’t study astronomy. It’s that I won’t get to meet the version of myself who would have lived inside that life. There’s a person I’ll never become now. A future that won’t exist. And no one mourns that person except you.

Still, astronomy gave me things that didn’t disappear with the dream.

It taught me patience.
It taught me how to sit with not knowing.
It taught me how to feel small without feeling meaningless.
It taught me wonder.

Even if I never study space again formally, it shaped how I think. How I feel. How I look at the world. And that feels strangely permanent.

I think we romanticize holding on. We praise people who never quit. But we don’t talk enough about the courage it takes to let go when something no longer fits your life, even if it still fits your heart. Sometimes choosing a different path isn’t weakness. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s honesty. And trust me, it takes a lot of Courage to do so.

First dreams hurt the most because they’re innocent. Untouched. They come before we understand limits, before we understand money, before we understand systems and constraints. They feel pure. And when they leave, it doesn’t feel like disappointment. It feels personal.

But first loves aren’t always meant to last. Sometimes they’re meant to show you what loving something deeply feels like, before life asks you to love something differently.

I still look at the night sky and feel that old pull. Not painfully. Just quietly. Like seeing someone you once loved and feeling warmth instead of regret. There’s gratitude that it existed in my life. And sadness that it won’t be my future. Both at once.

Healing, I’ve learned, doesn’t always mean forgetting. Sometimes it just means remembering without hurting.

And maybe the truth is simpler than we make it. Not getting what you want doesn’t always mean losing what you love. Sometimes it just means loving it in another way.

I think about how many people are walking around carrying unlived lives inside them. The writer who became an engineer. The dancer who became a doctor. The scientist who became a teacher. Not because they didn’t love their dreams enough. But because life asked something else of them.

And yet, that love doesn’t disappear. It just settles into quieter places. It shows up in how they think, in what they notice, in the questions they still ask, in the things they return to when life feels heavy or too loud.

Once your heart loves something, truly loves something, it never fully leaves. Even when life gets busy. Even when you grow practical. Even when distance builds between who you are and who you once imagined becoming.

You find your way back in small, almost accidental ways. In books you didn’t plan to pick up. In thoughts that drift when you’re tired. In quiet moments that feel oddly familiar. In looking at the sky and feeling something move inside you, without knowing why.

It may no longer be your career. It may no longer be your plan. It may no longer be your future. But it still belongs to you.

Not everything meaningful needs to become your life to have mattered.

Some things stay like stars you never reach, just soft lights in the distance that still ache when you look up.

Writers, bring your chaos, your charm, and your half-baked drafts — Beyond Lines is ready for the beautiful mess. Let’s publish it!

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“Grieving Lost Dreams” was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

ENHYPEN.

Enhypen is more than a group I follow or a series of performances I watch. They are a collection of moments that have colored my life in ways I cannot fully describe. "Sometimes, the smallest lights guide us through the darkest nights."

From the first time I watched their debut stage to the countless episodes, clips, and comebacks I have seen, their presence has been a quiet companion through days both bright and heavy. There is a feeling in their music, in their expressions, and in the way they carry themselves that reminds me of what it feels like to grow, to struggle, and to still find joy in small, fleeting moments.

I remember the joy I felt when first time I watched — Drunk-Dazed and Fever.

"Joy is not just in the smiles we give, but in the ones that reach our hearts."

The energy they carried was intoxicating but also grounding. I laughed at their playful gestures, my heart leapt with the sharp movements in the choreography, and I felt something stir inside me that I had not felt in a long time. Each member seemed to speak without words, each glance a story, each smile a reassurance that life can be chaotic and beautiful all at once.

Watching them closely, I began to notice not just the brilliance they project but also the quiet shadows behind that light. Some moments are bright, but some carry subtle struggles. Ni-ki, in particular, always draws my attention.

"Even the strongest stars need a night sky to shine against."

I never look at him as an idol to be admired from afar. I feel him. In every episode, in every clip, when the others are laughing and joking, I notice the moments he holds back. He carries a weight, and I resonate with it deeply.

If I could meet him once, I would not ask for a signature or a selfie. I would simply hug him, if he allows, and tell him that he is enough. That he does not need to pretend or think about the haters. That he deserves to be happy and free, just as he once was. Ni-ki has lost a little of his spark, and it is something I feel personally. He is someone who did not get to live a childhood in comfort. He stayed away from his family and familiar spaces at such a young age. He faced isolation, challenges, and mental discomfort. Somewhere along the way, the company, the world, and circumstance dimmed his sunshine. He speaks little, yet his presence communicates volumes. I feel him because I, too, know what it is to lose the child inside, to carry the weight of experiences that were never meant to be shouldered alone.

Sunoo is another I watch closely. "Happiness is not stolen by those who try to take it, it blooms in defiance."

His smile is effortless and radiant, yet I see the pressures that threaten it. People criticize him for joy, as if the very act of happiness is a crime. His playful gestures, the cuteness he exudes naturally, they are pieces of a child that the world seems determined to erase. The long hours, the demands of work, the scrutiny of fans and strangers alike, they all weigh on him, yet he continues to shine. And this is not just Sunoo. Every member faces pressures that could crush the brightest light. Idols are not dolls for fans. They have lives, choices, and rights to live freely without the constant fear of judgment.

It is for these reasons that Ni-ki holds my heart as my bias.

"To care is to see the invisible and cherish it anyway."

Not only for his talent but for the resilience he carries, the quiet strength he shows, and the spark I want to protect. He is a reminder that even when life forces you to grow faster than you are ready, there is a core inside you that remains untouchable.

Through my journey as a fan, I have followed their path from debut to every comeback. I have laughed at behind-the-scenes moments, cried at meaningful performances, and celebrated every small victory. From the moment Heeseung threw a playful glance during their first reality show to Ni-ki’s precise movements on stage and Sunoo’s infectious laughter during fan events, these moments have become small anchors in my own life. Every glance, every laugh, every fleeting moment holds a universe inside it. They are reminders that joy, struggle, and growth coexist. Each fan chant, every subtle interaction, every carefully crafted stage presence speaks not just to fans but to anyone who listens closely.

Enhypen has taught me to feel deeply, to notice quietly, and to care without limits. They have shown me that being human means carrying light and shadow at once. As Ni-ki once said in an interview, "I want to be someone who brings light to others," and I see him striving to do just that every day. Their music echoes this too. In Tamed-Dashed, the lyrics resonate like a whisper: "Twisted and tangled. Dilemma of choice within dimensions. Taking a step makes me afraid…. ", reminding me that resilience is often quiet, unspoken, and deeply personal.

And yet, this is not only about Enhypen. Every idol, every group, carries their own stories, their own struggles behind the polished performances and bright smiles. "Every light you see has weathered storms you cannot imagine."

Being a fangirl is not just about admiration. It is about understanding the weight they carry, cherishing the light they offer, and respecting the humanity that exists beyond the stage. Just as I feel Ni-ki’s and Sunoo’s sparks, I know every artist holds a story that deserves recognition and care.

Enhypen is my companion, my reminder, and my inspiration. They have shown me that growth is never linear, that joy can be fragile, and that resilience often blooms quietly.

"Even the smallest spark can set the darkest night ablaze."

And as I watch them continue their journey, I hold their sparks in my heart, alongside my own, believing that every light, no matter how tested, is meant to shine.

[(Pls be kind and remember this thing — “ Never hate on someone’s idols, because that might be the only reason the person is alive”. They are human too. Just like the persons or other artists you like.)]