Random Life Stories and Unpredictable Moments

i have to admit, i sometimes find myself scrolling through porn sites, looking for something to kill time or just satisfy that curiosity. it’s not like i’m addicted or anything; i could go weeks without hitting that play button. but when i do, it makes me wonder if it’s bad for me? i mean, i can’t be the only one questioning this, right? 🤔 every time i watch something, i feel a bit guilty, like there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head, telling me it's a waste of time. is it lowering my standards for real-life intimacy, or is it just a normal thing to do for a dude my age?

most of what i see is so exaggerated and just plain ridiculous. these people look unreal, and it makes me think if i’m ever going to meet someone who’s got that kind of body or skills. i mean, do i have unrealistic expectations now? who knows? all those perfect angles and lighting make the whole thing seem so fake. yet, here i am, clicking on the thumbnails, falling into that same trap over and over. sometimes, after i’m done, i feel like i’ve wasted a good chunk of my evening, just staring at a screen when i could’ve been hanging out with my friends or playing video games. 🤦‍♂️

the whole industry seems messed up too, like there’s a lot of sketchy stuff happening behind the scenes. consent issues, exploitation, and all that nonsense. it’s kinda hard to enjoy something knowing that there could be some dark underbelly involved. should i be feeling guilty for watching? am i just supporting a system that thrives on all of that? it’s tough to reconcile the enjoyment of something that may have such a questionable ethical side. i guess i sometimes feel like a hypocrite, trying to digest content that could potentially harm someone else. ugh.

and let’s be real, when i compare it with actual physical connections with people, it’s a whole different ballgame. yeah, seeing hot stuff online is fun, but can’t match the thrill of actually being with someone. so, is it really worth it? it’s like, am i trading real experiences for something so artificial? what’s the point? at the end of the day, i think it might just boil down to personal choice. but honestly, i’m curious about what everyone else thinks. is porn bad or what? are we just using it as a coping mechanism or is there something deeper going on? let’s talk about it. 💭

I never thought we would end up here. After twenty years of marriage, I find myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wonderin where it all went wrong. I look over at you sometimes and you’re right there, but it feels like you’re a million miles away. You don’t smile at me like you used to, you don’t laugh at my silly jokes, you don’t touch me just because anymore. And maybe it sounds childish, but I miss that so much. I miss feeling like you saw me, like you actually wanted me around. Now everything feels so cold and routine. We go through the motions—work, dinner, kids, bills, sleep—but the love part? It feels like it’s gone. Sometimes I wonder if you even notice how quiet it’s gotten between us. If you see how hard I’m trying to still reach you through all this distance. Or maybe you do notice and you just don't care anymore. Maybe you just... don’t love me anymore.

I keep telling myself maybe it’s just stress. Maybe it’s just life being hard and busy, the way it gets after so many years. But deep down I feel it. The way you barely look at me when you walk in the door. The way you say “love you” like it’s just another chore to check off. I feel invisible in a house we built together. I try to talk to you, to open up about how lonely I feel, but it’s like you shut down before I even get the words out. You say everything’s fine, that I’m “overthinking” again. But it’s not fine. Not to me. I crave something more than just existing side by side. I want to feel chosen again. Wanted. Loved. I miss the little things—the random hugs, the spontaneous kisses, the way you used to light up just seeing me. I don’t need grand gestures. I just need to feel like I still matter to you, like I’m still the person you dreamed about growing old with. Right now, it feels like I’m just... there. And the hardest part? I still love you so much, and maybe that’s why it hurts like hell to wonder if you don't anymore.

At 23 years old, I found myself startled by the insistent buzzing of the doorbell while cozied up in bed. In our no-frills apartment building, which lacks a concierge or any sort of fancy amenities, the buzzing generally signals a delivery. However, our tiny mailboxes aren't quite equipped for larger parcels. Since the pandemic began, many delivery services have adopted a policy where they consider a package officially delivered if they snap a photo of it in front of an open door - a policy that plays a significant role in this entire ordeal.

A few years ago, I had a somewhat bitter encounter with the man living below me. I had once accepted a large package for this grumpy neighbor during his absence. Despite knocking on his door daily for a week, there was no response. Eventually, he stormed up to my door, fuming and accusing me of hoarding his delivery. After presenting him with his undisturbed parcel and explaining my repeated attempts at contact, he snatched it without a word of thanks and stomped off. I vowed then never to meddle with his deliveries again.

Just a few days ago, this policy was put to the test. The delivery man buzzed, requesting to drop off a parcel intended for this same neighbor, but I quickly declined to accept it on his behalf. Perplexed, the courier buzzed again, politely inquiring if I could at least grant him entry to the building to approach my other neighbors. Perhaps feeling guilty for my earlier refusal and recognizing the courier was merely doing his job, I buzzed him into the lobby.

Moments later, I was startled by a knock at my door. The door was slightly ajar, revealing the parcel now abandoned at my doorstep, with the courier busily photographing it. Anger flared within me as I kicked the parcel away and demanded he delete the photograph. He appeared to think I was overreacting and moved on to attempt delivery with another neighbor.

Was it unreasonable of me to react so strongly? The core of my frustration lies in the risk of another confrontation with that disagreeable neighbor. If he saw the photo implying I had accepted the delivery, and then the parcel subsequently went missing, wouldn't that spark an even larger dispute?

Imagine if this situation unfolded on a reality TV show. The dramatic confrontation, heightened emotions, and intense disputes could indeed make for riveting television. Viewers might speculate on the various outcomes, critique my handling of the situation, or empathize with the stress of dealing with difficult neighbors and ambiguous delivery policies.

Would the audience side with me, feeling the tension of potential conflict, or would they find my actions overly dramatic? Reality TV thrives on such interpersonal drama, and this episode would likely be no exception.

What if I was on a reality show in this situation?

My mother has 3 daughters. I am the youngest, with two older sisters. My oldest sister died of a rare form of cancer 2 months ago. She was only 35. Saying that we were close is an understatement. We lived together and worked together. She was my very best friend and understood me on a level I don't think anyone ever will again. My middle sister is also my bestfriend, but the relationship is different. She's a very selfish person. She doesn't know how to be any other way. Before my oldest sister died, they were in an argument and not talking. My middle sister doesn't feel guilty about that at all..saying she knows without a doubt they would have been talking again soon. Well that's not neccesarily the truth. I know so much that she doesn't about how my oldest sister was going to cut her off completely. She still loved her, but just didn't like her anymore..and as mean as it sounds, her reasons were valid. I could never share that with my middle sister of course..but sometimes I wish I could. She has made comments lately that have made me so angry. She has said, "I'm so sorry we lost our sister. She was so much better to you than I can be." And you know what shes freaking right. My oldest sister was better to me, and the family. She cared for me and about me. She was selfless. So if my middle sister wants to sit and talk with me, looking for pity when making those statements... I'm going to come online and say the one thing I would never say aloud. you're right. It should have been you.

I keep rehearsing the line in my head, like it is a script, but my mouth stays closed when I sit on her couch. I am very polite. I say “yes ma’am” and “thank you.” I talk about sleep hygiene and stressors and coping skills, like I am trying to sound clinical for the session notes. The real sentence is that I have suicidal thoughts. No plan. No date. Just the thoughts, like pop ups, and it scares me. I do not say it because I picture her switching from calm therapist mode to risk assessment mode, and then confidentiality turns into a rule book. She knows my parents. They pay. My brain keeps yelling she will call them and say I am unsafe. I know there is duty to protect, imminent risk, mandated reporting, all that stuff, but it feels like a trap door under the carpet. I imagine a cascade: she documents it, asks about means, does a lethality screen, makes a safety plan, asks for consent to involve family, and if I freeze she escalates to crisis protocol. Then my mom crying, my dad going quiet, and me getting treated like a problem to be managed. I keep thinking, what if I say it wrong, what if “I don’t want to be here” sounds like “I will do it tonight.” What if I get sent to a hospital because I used the wrong words. I try to stay objective, like I am reporting symptoms, but my hands sweat and I talk about homework instead. Do you also do that thing where you translate your pain into acceptable bullet points so nobody panics;

Last session she asked what I am avoiding, very gently, and I gave the most boring answer possible. Later at home I tried to be logical. Therapists do not want drama, they want risk management and client stability, and they usually follow a decision tree. If there is no plan, no intent, and you can agree to a safety plan, the standard of care is often outpatient. That is what I repeat to myself because it helps. I can picture a version where I say, “I have suicidal ideation, passive and recurring,” and she nods like it is a normal data point. She might do a brief suicide risk formulation, ask about protective factors, and build a coping toolbox with me. She might suggest a psychiatric consult. She might ask me to reduce access to anything risky, and ask if I have one trusted adult, and that part could be my choice. If someone is in immediate danger, calling local emergency services is the right move. I still fear the parent phone call, yes, but I also notice hiding it is its own risk. When I keep it secret, the thoughts get louder, like they win by default. Also, I do want a future, even if it is small, like just finishing a week and eating breakfast. When I imagine saying it out loud, it feels like turning a light on in a messy room. Not clean, just visible. And visibility is kind of the first intervention. I am not saying it becomes easy. I am saying it can become more manageable, and a treatment plan is a real thing, not a moral failing. Next time I think I will ask her, politely, what her confidentiality limits are with parents, in plain words, before I disclose details. If you were in my chair, would you rather keep guessing, or would you rather know the protocol and build a plan that keeps you here for the next day, and the next?

This is probably going to be my final post anyway let me get into it.( for my context check my last post) Currently I’m just in the idgaf stage Ive truly lost pretty much lost a lot of hope almost all of it. I’m also just at the point where I don’t care to get better, I don’t want to get better, and I don’t want better for myself. I’m considering distancing myself from everyone(including friends,family, even teachers) and potentially cut off people as a whole. I’m also going to refrain from making new friends and telling people how I feel period it’s no one’s business. Honestly my plan going forward Is to just turn myself in and do my time and then after I finish my time I’ll kill myself. And my goal for being an astronomer is most likely dead at this point I’ll probably be dead before then and not do I really want to put in the effort to achieve it and improve my math skills so basically I’ve given up on it and to be honest it’s upsetting to think about. I’m also pretty apathetic and resistant to the idea of therapy now I’ve accepted that I don’t want to get better and it would be a waste of money for my family members to even pay for it because I wouldn’t cooperate and I would be hard to work with and it would also be a waste of time for the therapist. Anyway that’s all I wanted to say and I appreciate those who gave me support on my last post.

You gotta do what u gotta do even if it's dumb to protect your peace 😆😆😆😆

Written as a letter to my mom...

Dear Mom,

You promised me that you'd visit China were I was adopted.

You promised me that we'd drive up the coast of California.

You promised me that we'd visit where you grew up in Long Island, New York.

You promised to show me around Europe and the places you went on your college trip.

You promised me that you'd go to Las Vegas for the Chinese New Year decorations for the Year of the Snake.

You promised me that we'd visit Chilé were you spent your younger years.

You promised me that you'd be there for me on all those trips.

But the most important place that I wanted you to visit is walking me down the aisle if I got married.

I'm single again, but I would've wanted you to be there with me to comfort me when things well out between my boyfriend and me.

I know you're in a better place, and we always said, "Fuck Cancer!" But by God, by anyone who would listen, we'd promised that we'd travel the world together!!!

I'm tired, it's late at night when I'm writing this. I'm sleepy.

I love you!!!

Love, you're daughter who loves you to the moon and stars and back!!

I'm a 15-year-old guy and live with my mom since she divorced my dad. Recently, he remarried and now lives with his new wife and her two sons, aged 13 and 8, in her place.

The environment where mom and I live isn't ideal, particularly when compared to dad's new house. Even the schools in his area are better.

After discussing with my mom, she believed it might be beneficial for me to move there for educational reasons. Excited, I shared this with my dad.

However, dad asked for some time to think about it. Days later, he regretfully informed me that it wasn’t feasible. Curious, I asked for his reasons. He cited the limited bedroom space—each son had their own—and emphasized that as they were just beginning to settle into this new family setup, adding another person might complicate things. He expressed concern about potential conflict given that I hadn’t spent much time with my stepbrothers.

I wasn’t satisfied with his rationale. I offered to share a room with the older stepbrother since we'd gotten along well before, and I pointed out how the school benefits could influence my future college opportunities.

Unfortunately, my dad remained adamant. Wanting to make my case stronger, I sought the support of our relatives. They spoke to him on my behalf which unfortunately left him quite upset with me. He felt cornered and told me I should have accepted his original decision without stirring family conflict.

Am I being too aggressive about this?

If all of this were part of a reality show, I wonder how the audience would react. Would they sympathize with my educational aspirations or criticize me for going against my dad’s wishes and involving the family? Reality TV often amps up the drama, so my actions could even gain some fans who admire my determination, or possibly viewers could see me as the stubborn kid making family matters worse.

From this, how should I approach the situation with my dad now?

Greetings everyone,

All my life, at 30 years of age, the thought of driving filled me with intense anxiety. Conveniently, living in an urban center meant I could generally walk to my destinations, so I managed to avoid addressing my fear. However, my husband, Stan, aged 32, and I have been together for six years, married for three. During our time together, Stan attempted to play the role of my driving instructor. Unfortunately, his teaching methods were lacking, characterized by impatience and frequent outbursts which only exacerbated my fears. We used an old warehouse parking lot for practice sessions, where any minor mistake I made - such as not checking my mirrors long enough - would trigger a storm of yelling from Stan.

Amid all this stress, I confided in my brother, Paul, who is 33, about my desire to overcome my driving phobia. Paul and his husband, Chris, generously offered to help. Their encouragement and patience were a stark contrast to Stan's harsh approach. Surprisingly, I discovered that I wasn't a bad driver; I was just severely anxious.

The urgency to learn to drive was further fueled by Stan's condition that he would not consider starting a family with me until I had acquired my driver’s license. Driven by this motivation, Paul and Chris accompanied me to the DMV two weeks ago, where I passed my test and subsequently obtained my license. I even purchased a car recently with savings I had set aside for years, feeling a surge of independence with the encouragement from Paul and Chris.

Expecting Stan to be upset about my secretive approach, I was prepared for conflict. Although he expressed disappointment that I did not seek his help, the truth was his involvement only worsened my anxiety. Despite our differences, our love remained strong, and I hoped to move past this.

This Sunday, Stan planned a surprise at his parents' home—an intimate celebration in honor of my new driving skills. During the event, my mother-in-law praised Stan for his supposed dedication and support through my learning process. The misinformation overwhelmed me, and in the heat of the moment, I clarified that the true heroes behind my success were Paul and Chris, not Stan. This disclosure led to a rift; Stan has since been distant, and while some family members understand my position, others align with Stan, creating tension.

Had this scenario unfolded on a reality show, one might wonder how different the reactions could have been. Would the audience perceive my outburst as justified or see it as an overreaction? Perhaps the dramatic settings of a reality show would amplify the tension and lead to more extreme reactions from both Stan and the audience, turning our personal struggle into a spectacle for entertainment.

Amid this family drama, I find myself questioning, was I too harsh, or was I simply standing up for the truth?

I'd appreciate some thoughts on this: do you think I was too harsh at the party???

I'm a 17-year-old girl and I have a genetic condition I inherited from my mom. It's not something that majorly impacts my life, and I manage it just fine with daily medication. Despite this, my mom is big on homeopathy and insisted on taking me to a holistic practitioner. I'm pretty skeptical about these things, but I went along to keep the peace. This practitioner handed me some "natural remedies," claiming they could cure my virus. I'm pretty aware that while some of these alternative treatments might alleviate symptoms for certain conditions, they can't cure my specific illness. I couldn't help but be sarcastic and my mom later called me out for being rude to the practitioner. She does agree with me about the effectiveness of the treatment but wishes I had shown more respect. Was I really being unreasonable?

If this scenario unfolded on a reality TV show, you'd bet the drama would be ramped up! The cameras would zoom in on my eye roll and the practitioner’s offended face. Viewers would probably be split – some might appreciate my skepticism and backtalk, while others could side with my mom, saying that I should have shown more politeness, no matter what I thought of the treatment. It would definitely spark debates on social media about respect versus speaking your mind.

When I was a college student, I experienced an unusual, one could even say absurdly tragicomic event. It all happened one lethargic afternoon in the student dormitory where I lived. As I lay flat on my stomach on my bed, recovering from the previous night's party, a girl—who had also attended the party—sat on my lower back and began to massage my upper back. During the massage, I bent my legs at the knees and playfully patted her back with the soles of my bare feet, as if I were massaging her in return. She chuckled, finding it amusing. It was a comfortable, easygoing moment.

However, while I was patting her, I felt her necklace with my toes. She had turned the necklace on her back while massaging me so that it wouldn't bother her. The necklace had a small medallion that I inadvertently tangled between my third and fourth toes, along with a few strands of her long hair, which was tied in a ponytail. A mischievous impulse took hold. I held onto it, not wanting to let go. She turned around, still seated on my lower back, now in the opposite direction, my sole in front of her face. She grasped my foot with one hand while using the other to try and untangle the chain and medallion from my toes. I laughed at her futile attempts, playfully refusing to loosen my grip, despite her pleas to let go of the chain to prevent it from breaking and to stop pulling her hair.

Her pleas only fueled my amusement. Quite simply, I enjoyed the fun and tortured her with pleasure.

To put it mildly, she was a girl for one night. A former cheerleader and once a pole dancer in a strip club, she was a very cunning and skilled girl, and was one of those who drifted through college parties. I didn't particularly appreciate her, but she was... available, and sometimes that was enough. I brought her into the room, taking advantage of the fact that my girlfriend had been away for some time. She was of medium height, slim, and well-built. Her face wasn't what you'd call pretty, save for one truly remarkable feature: her teeth. Her teeth were flawless. She had a beautiful, impressive set of exceptionally large and strong teeth. When she spread her lips in a smile, they looked like perfectly strung pearls.

My playful game came to an abrupt halt when I felt her long, sharp nails begin to scratch, not gently, but with a deliberate, unpleasant drag across the toes which were holding the chain, then along my sole. My amusement vanished, replaced by a sudden jolt of apprehension, a cold prickle of fear. This wasn't playful anymore. Afraid that she would scratch my foot and toes, I immediately loosened my grip, allowing her to free the chain. I took great care of my feet, with an almost obsessive attention, and was proud of their appearance, especially toes. I was practically at the beginning of my career as a sandal model. My big toe was a special and a striking feature on my feet: very large, nicely shaped, significantly longer than the second toe and exceptionally dominant, and art directors and photographers liked it. I had appeared in magazines and commercials for men's sandals, mainly toe-loop sandals, flip-flops and various other attractive sandals on several occasions.

But the game, I realized with a sudden chill, wasn't over. Not for her.

The moment the chain was free, swiftly, unexpectedly, she seized my foot with both hands. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Then came the shock! Before I could even register what was happening, before my brain could process the intent, before I could even think of pulling my foot away, she bit down on my big toe!

A crushing pain exploded through my big toe. The pain was instantaneous and excruciating, unlike anything I had ever felt. It was as if a vise had clamped down my big toe and then crushed. A raw, involuntary scream tore from my throat, ripping through the quiet afternoon. I screamed at the top of my lungs, the pain so intense I felt my eyeballs bulge, threatening to pop out of their sockets. I nearly fainted.

In the ensuing chaos, the bookshelf beside my bed, an old, rickety thing overloaded with textbooks, somehow dislodged from its precarious perch and struck her. The sudden impact caused her to release my toe, and I was finally able to yank my foot free. All of this happened within a maximum of 10 seconds.

I ended up in the hospital. Doctors, their faces grim, explained the extent of the damage. The bite, they said, had been so strong, that she almost bit my big toe off! The big toe bone was crushed, pulverized just below the upper joint—a little more than half of the big toe.The upper part of the big toe looked almost separated. The doctor told me, that I was crazy lucky, becose that the bookshelf saved me at the last moment, otherwise that girl would have definitely bitten off my big toe. By the way, when I arrived at the hospital until I told them what happened to me, the doctors thought I was bitten by a dog.

I lay there in profound shock, terror seizing me at the realization that whore had almost bitten my big toe clean off. I was scared and desperate. The doctors were miraculous. They performed some intricate, delicate procedure to save my toe. “You were lucky,” the nurse had said later, her voice grave, checking my IV. “That big toe was nearly bitten off. Could have lost it for good.”

The recovery was an agonizingly long ordeal. Weeks stretched into months, filled with physical therapy, throbbing pain, and the frustrating helplessness of limited mobility. Even now, many years later, my big toe sometimes still hurts and often goes numb. Despite efforts to remove it, an ugly scar remains to this day. Because I have a very large and strikingly prominent big toe, significantly longer than the second toe, scar is even more clearly and unmistakably visible.

That single, savage act ruined my fledgling career as a model for sandals. It was a valuable source of pocket money during my college years, a small but steady income that had once allowed me a measure of independence.

I’ve replayed that event in my head a thousand times, sifting through every detail, every word, every look. How could a playful game turn into such a visceral act of aggression? I'm still in shock and disbelief that that girl had such strong teeth. I still wonder, is it normal for a girl to have such strong teeth and a bite!? I wish I had an explanation, because I'm simply shocked that a female can have such a strong bite. I am most disappointed in myself as a man, because I didn't even try to free my foot, I just screamed, and I let a girl who is a head shorter than me defeat me. I didn't do anything to defend myself, only an incredible lucky circumstance saved me.

I wanted her to get a prison sentence. The police were involved, the hospital reports stark and undeniable, the gruesome photographs of my mangled toe laid bare. But her version of the story, where she conveniently omitted to say that I had released her chain before the bite, was, somehow, more believable in the eyes of the law. She painted herself as the victim, reacting defensively to my "assault" with my foot. Her portrayal of herself as a victim of violence was at the highest level. During the trial, at one point, when she glanced at me, she discreetly stretched her lips into a smile. I interpreted to mean she had no remorse at all for her action. The legal system found her not responsible for the wrongdoing she did. The judge was a woman and I believe that there was also female solidarity. She managed to get out of everything without any consequences.

Also, it was hard for me that s got a lot of support from the girls, and many of them were delighted by her act and I was their object of ridicule.

I am convinced that the bite wasn't in affect, but completely calculated and that she did it with premeditation.

In the end, once again, I am infinitely grateful to the doctors who saved my toe and prevented me from losing it in such a bizarre way.

What would people have thought if they had seen this on a reality TV show?

what's the bloody point when you miss your ex, really? you're sitting there, 27, thinking you've moved past high school drama, but nope, you're right back there. they left you three months ago after three intense years together, and now you're spiraling into a bottomless pit of depression. is there a secret manual for getting over an ex that everyone else somehow got but you missed? if sharing this is going to make any sense, let's break it down.

to put it bluntly, it’s a daily grind. you wake up every day hoping for some magical cure or one of those flicks where you bump into someone in a coffee shop and everything just falls into place. spoiler alert: shit's not happening. your heart's tied to someone who might not have been the right puzzle piece after all. or maybe they were and universe is just screwing with you. you're stuck in a loop, thinking about her scent, her stupid laugh, the way she made you coffee on cold mornings. fair warning, you might become one of those coffee-obsessed nutcases pretty soon.

but seriously, what are your options when the loneliness eats you up daily? pretending you're okay is a common go-to. you dress up, put on that 'i don't give a damn' façade, but inside, oh boy, you know it's raining cats and dogs. you could dive into new hobbies or some self-help BS, but the reality is far from motivational quotes. sometimes, you're just lying on the couch questioning your existence or scrolling endlessly through social media pretending you’re searching for a life hack. it’s all a load of bollocks, innit?

sure, everyone sings the whole “focus on yourself” song, but let’s face it, they don’t know your pain, do they? it’s like everyone turned into self-help gurus overnight. everyone’s an expert in feelings except you. being miserable doesn't come with a handbook. eating ice cream or crying into a pillow is about as therapeutic as it gets. you want to ask the universe or whoever's in charge of this mess, “can I unsubscribe from heartbreak, please?” but you know better. it's not that easy, and you’re stuck trying not to curse your past life choices.

here’s the kicker – you're supposed to "move on" and "find someone better", but what if you just want a break from the circus of life?! let's be honest, there are no easy answers here. it's trial and error, with an extra slice of error just for good measure. you might miss her, but life's a bitch and life ain't waiting. are you going to keep reminiscing about the past or finally get off your ass and write a new chapter? time’s ticking, what’s your move?

I met him when I was 11, and he was too. We had a little childhood romance and started "dating" when we were 13. He helped me get through my parents’ divorce, and I helped him with his own family issues... we really liked each other. We were each other’s first love, it was sweet, it was innocent. I felt at home with him. When we hit six months together, things were already falling apart, and I broke up with him because I was going to move to another city mid-year. He seemed to take it well, or at least that’s what I thought. We talked bad about each other afterwards, like teenagers do, of course.On my last day in that city, we were leaving school when he saw me from a distance, gave me a small wave… and cried. I cried too. But neither of us said anything or walked up to each other.After I moved, I sent him a text message saying EVERYTHING I felt. He responded and said he felt the same, but that it wouldn’t work because of the distance and because our story had ended. We still talked sometimes...Then in November, he came to my new city for a karate tournament. Our moms were very close, so he stayed at my house. When I saw him again, it felt like we were still together. I knew I was still crazy about him. At first, we were super shy around each other, but we eventually opened up. He had changed a lot, and so had I. That night, we sat on a couch downstairs in my building and talked for hours. We kissed and made promises we couldn’t keep. He slept in my room, and I slept in my mom’s. But we kept messaging each other all night. It was strange to think that he was here, in my house, in my room. At around 2 a.m., I went into my room and sat by the bed. We talked, laughed, and remembered everything. I took so many pictures of us. At 6 a.m., he left, and I cried so much in the lobby of my building. My love was leaving. From that moment on, the song "The Only Exception" became ours.We tried to keep in touch, but eventually he told me to move on with my life.In January, I went back to my hometown and we went to the mall, just as friends. I really liked it… I had written him a letter, but never gave it to him. I went to his house, and we ended up making out. I didn’t want to leave. The next day, I was already going back to my city.So we spent the whole afternoon watching series and just enjoying each other’s company. I left, and this time ,didn’t cry.We tried a long-distance thing again, but it ended when I found out he was dating a girl from his class, one of his friends told me. It felt like my world collapsed.He was different, you know? He could even understand my silence. I really loved him.Now, I just know that he’s doing some questionable things and that he’s dating another girl.Of course, I’ve had other crushes… but I always compared them to that sweet boy who once existed.I read the letter I had written to him today and realized how naive I was…I miss the boy I was once madly in love with.I really want to send a message, but sometimes not sending is better than being rejected.I just wish he knew… that once, it was him.

So, you know how when you're a teenager, your brain is rewiring itself as well? Like, your prefrontal cortex is very slowly maturing, unlike the amygdala with already matures. That means since the amygdala is a very emotional and hyperactive organ, it causes us to do more impulsive things than rational ones. No wonder at 13 I feel so angry, reckless, sad and anxious. Those emotions are shameful, they make me savage and horrid. I wish I had better control of myself. It makes me focus on one thing, usually shallow stuff, and forget the other, like an idiot. That's why I finish certain homework and not some. That's why say something horrible and regret it. I hate my brain, I wish I was more mature and less angry and chaotic. I've heard certain drugs like Xanax work as they reduce amygdala activity and soothe you, make you more relaxed and less anxious. They do that, right? And I heard that cutting my skin works by releasing endorphins, which will also soothe me. I hate my body, I hate how ugly and out of control I am right now. The drugs and cutting will fix me, in theory, they work I just know it. So please, I don't think I'm shameful, I think I'll be smart and lucky and not get addicted.