She Writes | Novel

I appreciate the efforts he made even after I closed the door. The small gestures, the quiet attempts to stay present. They were noticed. They were not ignored.

But gestures are not repair

He kept saying I was the first choice. He said the others were nothing, just girls who did not matter. Yet my eyes kept seeing what his words tried to deny. Conversations that never ended. Promises that overlapped. Attention that was never fully withdrawn. Love does not divide itself and still call itself love.

What hurt most was not the presence of other women. It was the denial. The way truth was softened and delayed. The way “I love you” was spoken while behavior remained unchanged. Patience was expected while comfort was protected. That was not love. That was convenience.

I could have stayed. I could have accepted the explanations. I could have looked away. But I know too well what it feels like to be hurt by someone else’s choices. I refused to become the reason another woman would suffer.

He said love was complicated. I learned that honesty is simple.

If love had been real, there would have been no triangles. No shared promises. No need to justify actions that should never have existed. Loving me would have meant choosing me clearly and completely.

I accepted flaws. I changed myself . I made sacrifices. And I loved fully. Nothing I gave was half. That is why half love had no place with me.

So I closed the door. Quietly. Completely. Because apologies without change were only noise.

He may never understand the damage that was done. I do. And that understanding was enough.

I will never be an option.
I will never be part of a triangle.
And I will never be the reason another woman suffers the way they made me suffer.

If you truly love me, make it right.If you truly want to see me happy, if you truly want me in your life , choose commitment, choose loyalty, and take responsibility.Be faithful to me, and apologise to others you hurt and tell them truth.

That is what a real man does.

I am exhausted in a way sleep cannot touch.
Lost, with a weight in my chest that feels older than this moment, heavier than breath itself. I try to cry, but the tears refuse me, as if even sorrow has grown tired of escaping. So I pretend. I ignore. I try to forget.

One day, they will understand the depth of the wound they caused.I will not seek revenge or disturb their peace. That has never been my nature.
I walked away from the drama, even when the man at the center of it claimed he loved me.
I knew better.I refuse to be an option. I refuse to be part of a triangle.If there is a third presence, I leave. Always.

Yet one question keeps returning, quiet and merciless.

Wasn’t I good enough?

My heart may remain broken, but I will not stay where love is divided.

When I love, I do not ration myself. I give attention without calculation, effort without fear, loyalty without conditions. I give care, and love, pure and unguarded. But when betrayal enters that sacred space, something in me fractures. I become someone I barely recognize. Sharper. Louder inside. Suspicious. Angry. Not because I want to be, but because loving deeply turns pain into instinct.

I love hard. And when I love, I tell the truth. All of it. My feelings, my thoughts, even the small ones that pass through my mind like shadows. No lies. No masks. I offer myself openly, and that is when they learn how to hurt me. They know my steps before I take them. They know my heart before I speak. They know I love them. And some people mistake that knowledge for permission.

I am intuitive. Pain sharpened it. Lies never sit well in my presence. They tremble. They reveal themselves. And when I catch the truth hiding, I erupt. Not because I stop loving, but because I never did. My anger is not manipulation, yet it is judged as such. My pain is labeled control. That is where they begin to rewrite me into a villain.

I tried. Longer than I should have. Through pain, through silence, through nights that felt endless. And when I finally disappear from someone’s presence, it means they have broken me in a way no one else ever has.

My honest heart destroyed me

When my heart bleeds, I go silent. Completely. I do not even speak to my mother. My voice becomes something I have to search for, something buried beneath effort. Words no longer rise naturally. That is why I write, because writing is the only place my voice still recognizes me.

Everything in me feels blocked. My heart. My throat. My life. From the outside, I appear normal. I go to work. I function. I complete tasks. People see no difference because they do not know me deeply. I speak little there, only what is necessary. With clients, I perform professionalism perfectly, no emotion, just precision. But with my people, with family, with friends, I cannot speak. I am trapped inside myself, shattered and held together by routine.

While the storm rages within, I am already searching for the exit.

Now I just want to leave this place as soon as I can. I hope a new destination will do what time has not, heal me, even slightly. I wonder how easily they celebrate, how freely they enjoy life, while I remain here carrying the weight of what they did. They know. They know the lies they told, the betrayal they committed. And still, they laugh. Still, they live. As if my tears are invisible, or worse, entertainment.

If love ever finds me again, I want a love that sees me as I am and calls me precious without hesitation. A love that chooses me clearly. For that love, I have everything to give. I would lift him to the stars. I would stand beside him through every step of his life. He would be mine, and I would be his, undivided, unquestioned.

I would never betray him, not even in thought.

The past would have no power over us, because we would meet each other at our best.

And if I am not meant for such love, then I ask the universe for mercy. Do not let love find me again.

This is not a wish.
It is my final request.

People see a woman who stands alone,
stable, capable, earning, surviving in a foreign land.
They see only the strength, the independence, the accomplishment but what they cannot see is the quiet storm inside her,the loudest cry hidden behind the softest smile.A heart that breaks not once, but again and again,each time a memory rises from the dark. A soul carrying the weight of promises made to her,promises broken as if they were nothing more than passing words.

Yet she keeps walking.
Through winter winds and hollow evenings,
through heavy days and endless nights.She comforts herself so she will never become a burden to anyone.She cries silently so no one feels cursed by her sadness.She protects others from her pain,
even when no one ever protected her from theirs.
She loved deeply, but she was the one left behind.
And that truth does not make her weak.
It makes her real,in a world full of people who no longer know how to value a heart as rare as hers.

And for countless days,
she was the one who held everything in silence.
She was the one who never spoke her pain out loud.
She was the one who never manipulated anyone to stay.
She was the one who hid her wounds, even from her own family.

Yet still, she believes.
someday,
her smile will rise again as her shield,
and her silence will stand as her dignity.

I’m still with you 

Every morning, long before the station filled with tired commuters and rushing footsteps, Margaret McCollum walked down the worn stone steps of Embankment Station. The air was always cold. The lights always trembled. The trains rumbled like distant thunder. None of that truly mattered to her.

She came for one reason.

She came for a voice.

Margaret would sit on the same narrow bench near the edge of the platform. Her hands rested quietly in her lap. She waited with the patience of someone who has loved deeply and lost deeply.

And then it arrived.

“Mind the gap.”

Three simple words. Ordinary to the world. Extraordinary to her.

The voice was warm and steady. A little grainy. Familiar in the way sunlight feels familiar after a long winter.

It was the voice of her husband, Oswald Laurence. He had been gone since 2003. The world had moved forward. Time had carried everything else away. But his voice stayed behind. It lived in this tunnel, in this station, in this echo that refused to let go.

For Margaret, hearing him speak felt like a small miracle that gently stitched her heart together each day.

Until one morning.

She sat down. She waited. The trains arrived one after another. The announcements played again and again.

But the voice was different.

Smoother. Newer. Emotionless.

A voice without memories.

Oswald had vanished from the world a second time.

She sat silently as grief returned with the force of something she thought she had already survived. Losing the sound of him felt crueler than any logic could explain.

That night she wrote a letter. She did not ask for pity. She did not ask for changes. She asked for one thing only. A copy of the voice that had once warmed their home and still warmed her soul.

Transport for London could have simply sent her the recording.

But they did something far more tender.

They searched their archives until they found the original tape. They restored it. They revived it. They placed it back into Embankment Station. Not everywhere. Only here. Only in the place where a widow sat waiting for the man she loved.

When she heard his voice again for the first time, her whole body softened. Her tears were not just sad. They were grateful. The station felt alive again. He felt alive again.

Now, anyone walking through Embankment hears the same familiar announcement. But only Margaret knows the story behind those words. Only she hears her husband calling softly across the years. Only she feels the quiet moment of reunion that lifts her for another day.

Every morning she still comes.

She sits.

She listens.

She breathes.

Sometimes she cries.

Sometimes she smiles.

Sometimes she lets both happen at once.

The voice echoes through the tunnel.

“Mind the gap.”

She closes her eyes.

Because in those three ordinary words she hears the extraordinary truth she still carries in her heart.

I am still with you….

>>>>>

There are women who carry the memories of a man they love, even though he is no longer part of their life. They still remember how he sounded. They still feel something warm when his words echo in their mind. They do not speak about it. They do not ask for anything. They simply keep that memories with them, quietly, like a small light they are not ready to let go of.

Their love is silent.

Their longing is hidden.

But the memories still lives inside them.

The train hums beneath me, packed with strangers and foreign faces. The air smells of coffee, perfume, and the quiet rush of people chasing their own mornings. I hold my phone tight, trying to write before the next stop swallows my thoughts.

Life is full of uncertainty. What made me happy yesterday already feels far away, just another memory fading behind me like the stations I’ve passed. Maybe that is how life works. It gives and takes, teaches and forgets, then circles back when we are not yet finished learning.

Some people return again and again. Not because fate is kind, but because there is something left undone. Until the soul finds its balance, the same stories replay. The same faces appear. The same lessons knock at the same door. Nothing truly changes until we do.

I think about how everything meaningful takes effort. If you want fruit, you have to plant the seeds. You have to care for them when they are small and unseen. Love is no different. You cannot expect it to grow without attention. It asks for care, for presence, for both people to reach toward each other.

Love cannot survive on one person’s effort. It cannot breathe if one only takes and never gives. Even the deepest feeling fades if it is not shared, if it stays locked inside someone who thinks love is only a word to receive.

The train slows. A new crowd enters, faces shifting, sounds overlapping. I keep writing. Maybe this is what growing looks like — learning to water the right things, learning when to stop trying to bloom where nothing grows.

Outside, the city blurs by in pale morning light. I close my notebook and breathe. For the first time in a while, I feel like I am learning.

When she was young, she thought love would arrive like a postcard: clear handwriting, a date, an address. Instead, she encountered a presence older than maps and younger than dawn. It came and went like the weather,sometimes a bright, reckless hurricane that uprooted everything she knew; other times a soft wind that made the curtains tremble and left her room smelling of the sea. Every encounter etched itself into her bones, a small script she could never fully read, only feel.

 

An old woman in the market called it a soul contract. “You can’t run away from a soul contract,” she said, packing beans into small paper cones. “Sometimes you meet at the wrong time. You separate. But you keep circling back. It’s not about one life.” She kept that sentence like a talisman. It fit into the pockets of her days and warmed them.

 

There were days when she searched as if the highway itself would cough up the answer. She chased timelines, convinced herself that if she counted the nights, if she measured the days when she had been brave, when she had painted despite the ache, she could prove they had been there, unseen, watching. And in the quiet ledger of her memory, the proof always appeared: a faint warmth at the base of her throat during a lonely night; a sudden lightness when she stood on the rooftop, as if an invisible hand had steadied her.

 

The soul who returned taught without textbooks. Lessons were not tidy. Love did not mean agreeing about which book to read or which path to choose. It meant holding the same small value even inside imperfection: the courage to let someone be themselves, the daring to honor the choices that felt like truth. When they left again, the absence was not a punishment but a classroom. She learned not to break open but to be still, to trust the slow threading of time, and to keep her feet grounded on the fine, ordinary earth.

 Soul mates are not couples who share the same interests or seek the same things. They are those who honor each other’s differences, who see them as treasures rather than obstacles. It is not a fantasy of perfection, nor a quiet competition to impress or win. It is a patient, sometimes messy journey to discover one another, to learn how to live within imperfection. With soul mates, no one needs to pretend. They meet not to change each other but to recognize, reflect, and complement the truths already living within themselves.

One summer night, when the wind cut the streetlights in half and the world seemed folded into a single breath, she sat with the memory of them: a smile like a folded map, a hand that had once held hers through a storm. She remembered how they had once appeared at the edge of her chaos, offering an anchor she did not accept. She remembered how, after they left, the sky taught her to navigate by stars she had not seen before.

 

“You will meet them again,” the market woman had said. “But not to fix you, not to rescue you. They come to show you who you already are.”

 

So she practiced being true. She started writing and learned to tell her own story without waiting for applause. Some days it was small things: making coffee at dawn, walking to the park to see sunset, letting rain fall on her face and hands until she felt washed. Other days were the deep working days of becoming: deciding, failing, getting up. The soul’s return was not a prize for endurance but the natural consequence of her learning to stand in her own light.

 

Time braided itself into a kind of map. There were moments she could point to and say, Yes, that was the test. A midnight when she refused to run. A morning when she apologized honestly. The days she had carved meaning out of pain were the days the universe decided she was ready.

 

When they return, it will not be thunderous. It will be a small, precise alignment, like two hands finding the same single key. They will recognize the lines on each other’s faces, not as flaws but as cartography. No one will need to perform; no one will have to pretend. They will slip into the rhythm of someone who first learned to walk alone.

 

“You see?” the market woman will say when she passes by months later. “You are not alone in the circle.”

 

She will understand then that soul contracts are not binding chains but circled threads, sturdy, patient, invisible. They do not promise ease, but they promise truth. They ask for courage to stay, to trust, to keep faith in the slow pull of timing. And when the circle finally closes, it will not open again. What once felt like lessons in separation will settle into a lasting presence, steady as the earth beneath her. The world will still hold its gentle and rough tutors, but this time she will not walk without them at her side.

 

And so she will keep walking, heart full of hopes, mind full of thoughts and simple life. She will not wait for the perfect moment, because perfect moments are myths. She will trust the small circle where truth waits, where souls, like seasons, return only once more — and remain.

I discovered something unusual when I was only a child. At five or six years old I could already feel the weight of other people’s intentions, as if their unspoken thoughts traveled straight into me. Words never fooled me. Smiles never covered what I sensed beneath them. I saw what others tried to hide, and because of that I began to step back. Some relatives wondered why I kept my distance. To them I must have seemed cold, yet the truth was I already knew too much.

 

As the years passed I learned to keep my circle small. Only those who carried honesty in their hearts were allowed close, and they remained with me through time and distance. Even when oceans separated us, our bond never loosened. It lived quietly, steady and faithful, no matter how many miles lay between.

 

Love, however, was not always so simple. Many of my affairs ended because I could not unsee the cracks. I knew when affection was fading. I knew when words did not match the truth. The worst part was watching fear grow in their eyes when they realized I had noticed. Some lovers understood why I walked away. Others thought I disappeared without reason. Yet I could never stay with someone whose intentions did not mirror mine.

 

To me, a lie is never small. Even the tiniest one feels heavy, because I see every detail. I gather them piece by piece until the full shape of the truth stands before me. I do not lie myself. If I cannot speak, I remain silent. But if someone asks, I will always tell, no matter how much it hurts. I expect the same in return. If you cannot share, then say so, but never cover it with a falsehood.

 

Perhaps it is difficult to keep company with a person like me. Yet I believe there must be others who live in this same way. People who sense beyond words, who carry honesty like a fragile flame, who will not settle for anything less than truth. If you are one of them, then know this: you are not alone.

 

We exist too, scattered across the world, keeping our quiet circles, holding on to bonds that distance cannot break. And though our paths may never cross, I raise a silent cheer to us, the rare few who choose to see, to feel, and to remain true.

 

He walked through crowded streets, faces blurring into one another, each glance a fleeting hope, each smile a brief illusion. For long, he had searched her soul in strangers, convinced that somewhere, hidden among the wrong people, he would find the echo of the one who had marked him deeply. Every encounter began with excitement, a spark that promised warmth, but always ended in a quiet, insistent disappointment. He left before he could stay, not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t understand. He was chasing pieces of himself, soothing a heart that never seemed to settle.

He had a good heart. That much he knew. But his own habits, the invisible pull of old wounds, led him astray. Some days he believed he had found balance—everything seemed okay, a fragile peace settling over him but it never lasted. Tomorrow came with the same old doubts, the same restlessness that whispered he was still searching for something he could not name. Childhood shadows lingered: unspoken pains, the sting of bullies no one noticed, the invisible weight of feelings never expressed. They had shaped him into a man who knew love, but feared it, who recognized a true soul but could only align with it from a distance.

Yet there was hope. Somewhere inside him, buried under the layers of fear and confusion, a small, steady light remained. It was the knowledge that one day, he might understand. He might finally see that what he had been chasing in others was always in front of him: not the faces, not the fleeting thrills, but the essence he could not bear to hold close. Perhaps by then, he would be ready to see her,not as an idea, but as the living, breathing reality she was.

She, in her quiet patience, felt him still. Across the miles, across the spaces that had grown between them, she kept faith. She felt the pull of his presence, faint but undeniable, and held onto the hope that he would find his way back,not to her reflection, not to some illusion, but to her true, waiting soul. Neither knew what shape that reunion might take. Perhaps it would be late. Perhaps it would be imperfect. But in her heart, a quiet certainty lingered: HE WOULD COME TO SEE.

And when he finally did, perhaps he would understand that what he had been searching for all along was never lost,it had been with him, waiting, in the same rhythm of heartbeats that had carried them both through thousands moments of longing and silence.

People often see only what appeared before their eyes. They judged according to what was visible, never pausing to wonder about the meaning behind it. To them, the surface was everything, because they knew nothing beyond it.

 

But when two souls truly understood each other, when they knew every single detail hidden beneath the surface, they could grasp the truth behind what was shown. It was too complex for outsiders to comprehend. Others would always see differently, and that was all right. What mattered was that the receiver could understand clearly. Only then could the giver feel a deep, quiet happiness. Without such recognition, no offering ever felt complete.

 

To absorb the real essence of things was important, yet not everyone could do it. Only one person mattered, just one who could read and reflect the truth as it was. Every close encounter, every bond, was a chapter in the book of life. Some chapters ended swiftly the moment the page was turned. Others stretched on, weaving into new beginnings. But no one could know the ending until the book was fully written.

 

And still, as she walked through her days, she felt her story unfolding. She sensed it, there was someone who read her correctly, someone whose soul mirrored her own. He too seemed to understand her, though neither of them spoke of it aloud. No discussions, no confessions, only a silent exchange between two hearts that beat in quiet harmony.

 

It was a sweetness known only to them. Whether their chapter was half-written, already closed, or waiting to extend, it belonged to a fragile span of time that life had given them. And yet, the understanding they shared was not ordinary, it carried the weight of eternity. It stretched across all births, all parallel universes. In this universe they were distant, but perhaps in another they were already together.

 

That was the strange quantum of love and connection. The bodies might fail to respond, but the souls had already united. It was invisible to human eyes, beyond even their own touch, but their consciousness never lied.

 

So they wait, quietly, letting life write the next page. Whatever is meant to happen, happens. All they can do is live in alignment with their souls and trust that the story is already written among the stars.

 

The city breathed in shades of gold tonight. The sun slipped low, brushing the edges of buildings with firelight, as if the rooftops themselves were kissing the day goodbye. Clouds lingered like gentle smiles across the horizon, soft and playful, carrying the promise of something not yet spoken.

 

I walked slowly through familiar streets, watching people cross each other’s paths, strangers and neighbors alike, each caught in their own story. The air carried a quiet hum of life, of laughter, of footsteps echoing against stone. And still, somewhere between the sky and the earth, I felt a silence just for me.

 

They say tonight is a Black Moon, a hidden moon, a rare one. You cannot see it, but you can feel it, the sky emptying itself of light so that new beginnings can find space to breathe. And maybe that is why, as I stood there watching the last glow of sunset, I felt something shift inside me.

 

I have given pieces of happiness to others for so long, like scattering petals into the wind. Tonight, I whispered to the darkening sky: I deserve to gather blessings back into my hands. I deserve joy, the kind that does not vanish.

 

It was only a walk, just a Saturday evening in my small city, but it felt like more. The birds wheeled overhead, people moved around me, and the sunset folded into night. And under the invisible face of the Black Moon, I carried a quiet vow. This time, I will live rightly, fully. This time, I will make room for the good things waiting to come to me.

 

For I was born with a name that means “Moonlight angel”, and tonight I remember that even in the darkest sky, light and grace are my truest nature.

@diarysudaily

https://videopress.com/v/JuxJATwP?resizeToParent=true&cover=true&preloadContent=metadata&useAverageColor=true

 

She once carried her love like a hidden garden, a place where silence and beauty lived side by side. It was never a story of storms or demands, but of quiet hours filled with patience. In those days, she believed that love revealed its strength not in the public displays, but in the small ways two hearts learned to understand each other.

 

When he was near, the world felt calmer. Even in ordinary moments, she found joy in his presence. There was no need for hurried words or restless searching. Simply being close was enough. She had discovered that love could be steady, and that steadiness was its own kind of miracle.

 

She never measured what she received against what she gave. Instead, she cherished every look, every smile, every gentle silence they shared. Her love was not a chase but a choice, renewed each day with quiet certainty.

 

In the solitude of her reflections, she did not grieve what was fragile. She remembered the tenderness, the way trust had unfolded like petals toward the sun. She carried gratitude instead of longing, peace instead of regret.

 

Her patience had been her strength, and her love had been her light. And when she thought of those days, she did not see absence or loss. She saw a past written in softness, and she knew that such softness had shaped the heart she holds.

 

Yet she also understood, quietly, that what is shown is never the whole truth. Reality often holds more than appearances reveal, and the signs—carry meanings deeper than what meets the eye. In the gentle unfolding of memory, she recognized that love, like life itself, is far richer and more complex than it ever shows.

 

And in the quiet of her memory, she knew him better than he knew himself and still does.

The rain had been falling all morning, soft but persistent, drumming against the windows like a quiet accusation. Inside the dimly lit café, she sat alone, hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee, staring at the condensation creeping down the glass. She remembered the way she had poured herself into people, heart, time, every ounce of patience she could muster, only to feel the sting of betrayal. The ones she had trusted most, who she thought would hold her in their hearts, had left footprints across her soul, walking away as if she were nothing more than a shadow.

 

And yet, as bitter as that pain was, she could not stop thinking about the strange alchemy of human desire. People chased beauty as if it could fill the emptiness in their hearts, worshipped power as if it could grant them loyalty, clung to status as if it could shield them from loneliness. Education, youth, money, they are all facades, glittering and transient, easily taken away by time or circumstance. And still, the world seems to place them above love, above the messy, imperfect, unwavering devotion that has never left her side once.

 

She sipped her coffee and whispered to herself, her voice barely rising above the rain. Why do they let the real thing go? Why do they throw away hands that would hold theirs through storms for a world that will never hold them back? She hopes to find someone quiet and steady, with eyes full of patience, someone who will make her feel safe, and she realizes that love is not a choice based on calculation. It is not measured by age, nor beauty, nor power. It is measured by constancy, by courage, by the willingness to stay when it is easier to leave.

 

The café door opened and a gust of wind ruffled her hair. She understood something profound. The world will chase illusions forever, and people will continue to stumble over the glitter of what seems desirable. But she will not. She will build with the person who truly sees her, who loves without condition, who will stay without question. Everything else, the beauty, the power, the status, is nothing compared to the quiet eternity of a hand held in trust.

The nights were the hardest.

When the world quieted and the noise of the day fell away, her mind would wander back to the warmth she once knew. It had not lasted long, and love never promised her forever, but for a moment it had been enough to make her believe in miracles. She remembered the way peace had settled over her then, as if someone had reached into the storm of her life and given her a place to rest. That feeling, rare and unrepeatable, had carved itself into her heart like a gentle scar.

 

People saw her smile and thought they understood her. They did not. No one knew the battles she fought in silence, the invisible wars that left her exhausted yet undefeated. No one knew how often she stood on the edge of surrender, only to pull herself back because a small, stubborn part of her still believed. She believed that love could be kind again.

 

What happened to her had not been her fault. It had been born of lies, of betrayals whispered in the dark, of misunderstandings that spiraled into walls between hearts. Miscommunications had left her voice unheard. Manipulation had twisted truth until she questioned her own memory. She had been caught in the fire, but she had not lit the match.

 

Yet even with the ashes clinging to her, she carried a heart unburned. She refused to let the wrongs of others poison the purity she still held. Somewhere in the distance, whether in this life or another, she knew someone would see her as she truly was.

 

Truth has a way of finding the light. When it does, it will wash over her like the dawn after years of night. Until then, she walks forward, hope cradled in her chest, knowing that love, real and unshakable, still waits for her.

 

Hope never dies in her.

 

 

 

Some stories don’t simply pass through your life ,they press themselves into your soul.In the quiet corners of a city that never pauses, there is a girl who fills empty notebooks with words no one else will read. Ink becomes her only witness; the moon, her silent confidant. She writes not because she wants to be heard, but because she cannot carry it all inside.

 

On the screen, another girl appears — fragile yet unbreakable, creative yet quietly drowning in her own thoughts. She, too, writes journals no one opens, shapes words into poetry that aches with truth. And behind her eyes, there is a fire burning through the cold, a fire that both keeps her alive and leaves her unbearably tired.

 

The movie moves toward its end, not in grand gestures, but in a way that feels like a hand reaching through the darkness. A reminder that even the deepest hollow can echo with life again, if the right voice calls your name. It’s a beautiful ending, the kind that leaves you breathing slower, holding onto something invisible but real.

 

At the end of the movie, she breathe with the same wish blooming in her chest — for someone who can see beyond her smile, who can lift her from the emptiness, soothe the fire within, and quiet the ache that lingers. Not to rescue her entirely, but to walk with her until she can breathe freely again.

 

Until then, she writes. She creates.She burns and she heals, again and again, somewhere between the girl on the screen and the one in the mirror.

 

There was a moment, just after the rain, when the wind had nothing more to say. She looked up from her coffee and wondered something simple.

 

“Why do we make life so loud when happiness is so quiet?”

 

She didn’t need answers. She had already seen too much. Friends who wore smiles like armor. Marriages that looked golden from the outside but were hollow from within. Beautiful women with degrees and heartbreak. Doctors too tired to feel human. Voices that inspired crowds but couldn’t lift their own souls.

 

Even the strongest ones, the therapists, the writers, the dreamers, they all bled somewhere quietly. It was never on the stage. Never in the Instagram captions. It was in the quiet afterward, when they sat in the dark with their truth and wondered if anyone could really see them.

 

She stirred her coffee slowly. Not because it needed stirring, but because she liked the rhythm. Slow. Gentle. Present.

 

“We all die,” she whispered to herself, not in fear, but as a kind reminder.

“So why waste today?”

 

She didn’t want high ceilings or gold-plated door handles. She wanted mornings that began with peace, not panic. People who looked her in the eye. The freedom to do work that didn’t strangle her soul. A home that didn’t have to impress, only embrace.

 

Simple things. Not because she was weak or lacked ambition. But because she finally understood what luxury really meant.

 

Peace. Time. Honesty. A soft place to land.

 

The kind of wealth no one could steal.

 

She smiled. Not because everything was perfect, but because she had stopped waiting for it to be.

 

And somewhere deep in that moment, the world, in all its noise and confusion, grew quiet enough to let her breathe.

 

Baby,

“When the road gets bumpy, you don’t change the road,you fasten your seatbelt”

I think about that often, especially when I imagine us – what we’ll build, what we’ll face. I don’t believe in perfect love or flawless days. I believe in weathering the storms together, in holding on when things shake. I believe in staying, in adjusting the grip, not running when the path gets rough.

There will be moments when life doesn’t go the way we planned. When misunderstandings settle between us like fog. When tired days make words sound sharper than we mean. But I don’t want to give up or start over every time the road isn’t smooth. I want to reach for you, not the exit.

With you, I want to fasten my seatbelt. I want to choose the journey, not just the destination. I want to lean into the turns, ride out the bumps, and laugh when we hit potholes we didn’t see coming. I want us to trust the road we’re on,even when it’s messy,because we’re on it together.

So, wherever you are right now, I hope you’re also learning to stay steady through the rough parts. One day, we’ll meet, and we’ll both be ready to ride – seatbelts fastened, hearts open.

Yours,

Someone already choosing you.

She closed her eyes and let the dream unfold.

There they were, walking slowly along the beach, hand in hand. The sun was sinking gently into the horizon, casting golden light across the waves. The sand beneath their feet was warm, the breeze light against their skin.

Neither of them spoke, and they didn’t need to. Their hands spoke for them, fingers laced together like a quiet vow.

She wasn’t sure who he was yet. His face remained blurry in her imagination, like a half-finished painting. But the feeling he gave her was clear. Safe. True. A presence that didn’t overwhelm her, but held space for her to breathe, to be seen, to be still.

In her heart, she had waited a long time for someone like him. Not a perfect man, not a prince from a storybook, but someone kind. Someone who would choose her again and again, even when life was messy, even when she was tired, even when things were not easy.

They walked along the shore until the sun dipped low and the sky turned soft with stars. His hand never let go.

And in that quiet moment, she felt whole. Not because he completed her, but because he reminded her that she was already enough.

He saw her — truly — and stayed.

It was only a dream for now. A vision held close to her heart.

Someday, when the time is right, she believes it will become real.

One sunset.

One shoreline.

One hand reaching for hers, not to save her, not to change her, but simply to walk beside her.

And that would be everything.

I just want someone who’s mine, and only mine.

Someone with warmth like bare coffee between quiet hands,a presence that wraps around me like mist on a hot summer rain-soft, sudden, and real. A feeling like the ocean-deep, endless, a little wild, but full of love that never runs dry.

Someone who looks at me like golden sunsets and gentle moonlight,as if they see all of me, and still stay.

Just one. That’s all.

https://youtu.be/NaZznqme2hg?si=g4nDVZHEO3B8ow4O

It may be easy for him now,meeting someone new, smiling in photographs, chasing adventures like we never had the chance to. He looks happy. Maybe he is happy. Maybe he’s finally tasting the life we only ever dreamed of. Sometimes I wonder if it’s better that way. He can explore the world with someone else, laugh with someone else, share sunsets we never saw. And maybe I just wasn’t enough for that part of his journey.

But still… I know he loved me once. Truly. Deeply. There was no pretending in his voice when he whispered truths he couldn’t say to anyone else. I was there in the quiet, in the nights he felt hollow, in the hours before his soul found light again. I stood with him when the world turned its back, when even he almost gave up on himself. I never let go.

And even now, I believe he keeps a part of me with him, in some hidden chamber of his heart where no one else can enter. I know it because I live there in the sparks of his art, in the rhythm of his thought. I’m the memory that brings him unexpected inspiration. I don’t want to be just another girl in his past. I want to be the one who lifted him high enough to see the sky.

I was the shadow beside him when he was at his lowest. I was the voice that reminded him who he was when he forgot. And when he started to rise, when I saw him gaining wings again, I stepped away. Not because I stopped loving him but because I thought he didn’t want me anymore. Sometimes love means letting go so the other person can fly. And he did.

But something still lingers,something unspoken that neither time nor distance has erased. It’s more than memory. It’s more than regret. It’s the silent knowing that there was something rare, something real, something not meant to be ordinary. And we both felt it. We still do.

So if he ever wonders… if he ever needs to remember… I hope he reads these words and knows:

You know who you are to me. And I know what I was to you.Even if we never meet again, I will always cherish you

“I will walk.”

She will say it softly, like it is the most natural thing in the world. There will be no hesitation in her voice, no trace of disappointment in her eyes. Just calm certainty, the kind that grows in someone who knows what really matters.

She will not care for glitter or speed. Her heart will not be stirred by engines or shiny things. She will care for warmth, for kindness in his voice, for the way he looks at her like she is more than enough.

She will not ask for things he cannot give.

She will accept his reality, because love, to her, will never be measured in possessions. It will be measured in small moments. In gentle touches. In shared silence that feels safe.

She will want love that speaks with actions, not price tags. She will want respect that lives in the way he listens. She will want loyalty that stays, even when life gets slow or hard or quiet.

When he cannot offer luxury, she will offer presence.

When he feels like less, she will remind him he is already more than enough.

She will walk with him through heat, through cold, through uneven roads. Her hands will reach for his, not for comfort but for connection. She will not wait to be carried. She will walk beside him, step for step, heart for heart.

Because she will not fall in love with what he has.

She will fall in love with who he is.

And in that love, she will never ask him to run.she will simply choose to walk with him, wherever the path may go.

“I talk a lot,” she will say, her voice soft, almost apologetic, as if too many thoughts will make her less lovable.

She will lower her eyes, fidget with the edge of her sleeve, and offer the words like a warning, expecting him to retreat before she unravels.

But he won’t.

He’ll stay still for a breath, then smile the kind of smile that feels like safety.

“I’ll listen,” he’ll say.

And he will.

He won’t just nod or wait for silence. He’ll listen like every word she says matters, like her stories are constellations only he’ll get to name.

She will tell him about the dreams that keep her up at night, the childhood memories that still flicker like old film, the random thoughts that spin through her mind like wild petals in the wind.

And he will take it all in, gently, patiently—like catching snowflakes in his open palms.

In that moment, she will feel something shift.

She won’t feel like too much.She won’t feel like she’s overflowing

She’ll feel heard.

She’ll feel chosen.

And maybe, just maybe, she will begin to believe that love will sound like this:

Not loud.

Not perfect.

But steady.

A promise whispered across the table—I’ll listen.

And a life that grows from there.

Someday, she will sit across from someone who changes everything.

It won’t be loud.No grand speeches or dramatic revelations.Just a conversation,maybe over coffee, maybe under stars and the quiet realization that her world is bigger than she ever believed.

They will speak of strange ideas and impossible dreams.He will challenge her fears with questions she never dared to ask herself.

She will laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s freeing.And as they speak, something inside her will stretch, reaching toward a version of herself she didn’t know was waiting.

That night, she will walk home differently.

The streets will look the same, but they won’t feel the same.Colors will seem richer. The air will feel lighter.Not because the world changed but because she did.

From then on, she will seek out those kinds of people—the ones who won’t just agree, but who will open new windows in her mind.

The ones who carry light in their eyes and ask, “But what if the story could end differently?”

She will learn that growth doesn’t always come from solitude.Sometimes, it comes from voices that shake your certainty and hand you wonder instead.

And one day, when someone asks her what changed her most,She will smile softly and say,

“I talked with people who made me see the world differently.”

In the beginning, he will be who he’s always been. Rough around the edges. Guarded. Stubborn in the way men are when they’re afraid to feel too deeply. She will walk into his life like a quiet storm,soft words, kind eyes, no intentions of fixing what isn’t hers to mend.

She will not ask him to change.She will not leave passive notes or cry herself into silence hoping he’ll notice.Instead, she’ll love him as he is—without conditions, without a need to reshape him.

And that love will be the very thing that unsettles him.Not because it demands anything of him, but because it asks nothing.She will expect truth, not perfection. Presence, not promises.

One night;after a fight that doesn’t end in shouting, but in silence,he will lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and he will feel it shift inside him. The weight of her patience. The warmth of her faith in him. The image of her standing at the door, not walking away—but not waiting forever, either.

And that will be the moment he begins to change.

He will start showing up not out of guilt, but out of love.He will soften in places where he once built walls.He will learn how to hold her hand, not just when it’s easy, but when he feels unsure.

He will want to be better ,not because she asked, but because she never did.

And when they look back someday, she will smile and say,

“I never tried to change you.”

And he will reply,

“I know. That’s why I did.”

https://youtu.be/u2ah9tWTkmk?si=cP2K-h0xpngpOhH_

Baby,

I’m writing to you from a place of calm and deep happiness. Remember how uncertain things felt? How your heart was torn between two paths? I want you to know: you made the right choice.

You chose peace over confusion. You trusted your inner voice and saw clearly what your soul truly needs. That strength has shaped your days into something beautiful.

The person you let into your journey respects you deeply ,not just your warmth or light, but your whole being. Together, you are growing, learning, and building a connection that feels like home.

There are still challenges ,life always has them — but now you meet them with calm and confidence. Your heart is free, your mind is clear, and your spirit is steady.

Thank you for trusting yourself. Keep shining, keep loving, and keep walking your unique path with courage.

With love and light,

Your Future Self

I found this quote today:

She: What is true love?

He: 0 chance but infinite hope.

And it made me remember someone who waits at the corner quietly, without rushing anything, but with a steady mind and stillness.I found love there.But I’m no longer rushing anything.I have a pure heart that leads me to love people unconditionally;and causes so much pain in the end.

If there is someone mirroring my heart—so do I?

Yeah, I wait. No chasing… but attracting.I’m not gonna settle for less.I’m not gonna be greedy for attention, but wait with my pure intentions until they get noticed.I know I’m enough.I know I’m worthy of true love.I stay as me,to find the whole.I don’t want anyone halfway.

My purpose is to be a better version of myself. I don’t need to go into competition,because I’m worth enough to be chosen.So I stay, nourish myself, and live my life until true love finds me.

⸻

She stopped running.

Waiting silently, without rush.

In his quiet hope.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She found love.

昨日はすごく頭が痛くてなんとかわからないことで心は思いと感じたので映画を見ようと思って映画館に行った。見たいと思って行った映画はUncharted だったが間違えて他のCinemaに入ってしまった。入ったらすぐええ。。これはなんだ！と困ったけど後5分で気持ち全然変わった。「余命10年 」と言う映画だった。Story はとても私の人生らしくて、最後まで泣きながら見ていた。

二十歳の茉莉は、数万人に一人という不治の病にかかり、余命が10年であることを知ってる茉莉ちゃん、
彼女をとても愛しているカズくん、
心から毎日泣いている茉莉の家族、
とても私の人生らしい！

映画のあらゆる場面で、私は自分の人生を見ていた。茉莉と同時に病気になり,彼女と同じように治らない病気と診断された最初の2年間は人生は非常に困難したり、彼女を通して私は自分自身を見ていた。二人は異なる病気を持っていましたが、1つのことを除いて、他の多くのものはまったく同じでした。

私は彼女の気持ちをとてもよく感じることができた。 入院、さまざまな手術、さまざまな薬、今日でも変わらない痛み。 茉莉と私は2人ではなく1人。彼女が胸の切り傷にこっそり触れたとき、私も思いがけず、3回切り取られた背骨の傷跡に触れました。 感情にとらわれることだけなく、彼女の感触にも気づいた。

腰の病気やまだ理解できていない病気と戦っている私は主人公と重ねてしまった。みんなと違うことがこわい、健康が何よりも大事、でも彼女には生きるという選択肢がない。終わりがある人生は私たちと変わらないのに、期限が決まっているというだけでこんなにも切ない愛となると苦しくて胸が締め付けられるのと同時に、何故か暖かく包んでくれるような感覚を覚えた。死んだら死んだ時だし、死は必ずしも悲しいことではないって頭ではわかっていても、感情が抑えられなくなることって必ずあるけど後悔しないように生きようとか生きた証を残したいなんて思わなくても、生きていればそれだけでいいよと思うようになった。


ネットから色々探したところ“余命10年 “ と言う小説があることわかった。それが書いた小坂さん自身が難病を患っており、この文庫本の刊行を待たず亡くなっていることもわかった。もっとから探したところ彼が原発性肺高血圧症で逝去した事と、茉莉と同じ病気だったと書いてあった。これから小説買って読もうと思っています。


茉莉ちゃんの最後の選択に感動した。涙が止まらなかったけどこの映画を観られて幸せです。生きる希望をもらいました。いつも色々悩みやたくさんの不幸なことがあっても少しの幸せで生きてる、って思えるのが日常で、それが続いていくのがいいなと思えた。

物語の終わりに茉莉は亡くなり、カズくんは茉莉が示した道に行き、自分の事業の経営者になってる。茉莉の家族とカズくんは今も彼女の体は死んでいるが、彼女の記憶は彼らと共に生き続けている。 茉莉は、季節ごとや全ての小さな出来事をカメラでとらえていた人。 彼女は死ぬ前に自分の物語を書き終えた。 今は、カズくんは彼女の記憶の中で生き続け、彼女と同じように彼女にカメラで季節ごとや全ての小さな出来事をカメラでとらえている。

茉莉ちゃんの言葉で言うと
「死ぬ準備はできた。だからあとは精一杯生きてみるよ」”

スちゃんの言葉で言うと
「まだまだ死ぬ準備はできてないけど治らない病気があることわかった。けれどもあとは精一杯生きてみるよ」

日本語が苦手なので、間違いがあるかもしれませんが、お詫び申し上げます。

「20-year-old Matsuri Takabayashi (Nana Komatsu) learns that she only has 10 years to live due to an incurable disease. She decides to not dwell on her life and not to fall in love, but she meets Kazuto Manabe (Kentaro Sakaguchi) at a school reunion.」

©Su