Kat’s Musings

Tag: Long distance relationship

  • Reconnecting Through Documentaries: JFK Jr. & Carolyn Bessette

    Reconnecting Through Documentaries: JFK Jr. & Carolyn Bessette

    In the whirlwind of modern life, where days blur between deadlines, workouts, and endless to-do lists, my boyfriend and I have carved out a sacred little sanctuary each afternoon. After powering through afternoon gym sessions—and once the work emails have finally been answered (by him), I take my afternoon shower and settle down with my MacBook…Lights dimmed, blankets/ sweatshirt draped just so and the show waiting for me to delve into (hopefully we will do this with a couple of glasses of wine someday soon!).

    This is our time to disconnect from the chaos and plug into something that feels both entertaining and enriching. This past week, our nightly ritual transported us back to the glittering, tragic world of the Kennedy family with a captivating streaming documentary series focused on John F. Kennedy Jr. and his whirlwind romance with Carolyn Bessette (Love Story on Hulu).

    Our routine is simple but intentional. By the time the sun dips below the horizon, we have earned this pause. Exercise clears the mental fog, work gives him purpose, and then… release. We dim the lights, queue up the show, and for about an hour , the outside world fades. No scrolling social media (well…. Occasionally), no multitasking. Just us, the story unfolding, and the occasional pause to chat about what we are watching. It has become our favorite way to reconnect after busy days—sharing laughs, theories, and those “wait, did that really happen?” moments that make history feel alive.

    This last week’s choice was particularly mesmerizing: a deep-dive documentary chronicling the life of JFK Jr., the golden boy of American royalty, and his intense, fairytale-like love story with Carolyn Bessette. Carolyn was not some “random girl”—she was a stylish, former publicist at Calvin Klein, the kind of woman whose effortless New York cool turned heads in the fashion world long before she stepped into the spotlight as a Kennedy. She plays the hard-to-get game and follows “The Rules”—like I did when I first met him.

    I could not help comparing the two. A man who is simultaneously a boy who needs a woman to rescue him (like Edward in Pretty Woman). He craves for a soulmate to hold his hand through his traumatic past. It was full of dramatic recreations of history to paint a portrait of two people who found each other amid the blinding flash of fame.

    What struck us most was how the series humanized them. John F. Kennedy Jr.—“John-John” to the world—grew up in the shadow of his father’s assassination, America’s Camelot dream, and relentless media scrutiny. He was the handsome, charming magazine publisher (George magazine) who could have coasted on his name but chose ambition and adventure instead: piloting planes, kayaking dangerous waters, and searching for something real. Enter Carolyn, a Calvin Klein insider known for her icy-blonde elegance, razor-sharp intellect, and quiet confidence. Their meeting in the ‘90s New York scene was electric from the start. The documentary does not shy away from the messiness—the paparazzi chases, the strain of constant public eyes, the pressures of blending her low-key fashion life with his high-profile legacy.  She gave up her job (and seemingly her life) for him. And she was constantly criticized for it by her normie family members. 

    We were glued to the screen as it explored their secret courtship, the whirlwind 1996 wedding on a tiny island off Georgia (Cumberland Island, with its rustic charm and zero media seclusion), and the honeymoon phase that looked picture-perfect from afar. But the show also delves into the harder truths: the tabloid frenzy that followed them everywhere (and how this very frenzy killed Princess Diana), rumors of relationship strains, Carolyn’s discomfort with the spotlight, and the tragic end that still feels surreal decades later—their fatal 1999 plane crash off Martha’s Vineyard.

    The producers did an excellent job balancing the glamour with the grit, showing how love can be both a sanctuary and a casualty of fame.

    Watching it together sparked so many conversations between us. We would pause and debate: How would we handle that level of intrusion? What does it say about privacy in the age of influencers and 24/7 news? My boyfriend, ever the history buff, pointed out parallels to today’s celebrity culture—how little has changed since the ‘90s in terms of media obsession. I loved the fashion details; Carolyn’s minimalist, sleek style (think slip dresses, oversized sunglasses, and that iconic wedding gown by Narciso Rodriguez) still influences runways and Pinterest boards today. It made us reflect on our own relationship—grateful for the quiet normalcy we share, the ability to just be without cameras flashing.

    Beyond the romance, the series touched on broader Kennedy lore: glimpses of Jackie O.‘s influence, the weight of the family name, and John’s quest to forge his own path. It was never just a love story; it was a meditation on legacy, loss, and the price of being “American royalty.” By the final episode, we were both a little misty-eyed, discussing how stories like this remind us to cherish the present.

    Our nightly shows have become more than entertainment—they are little windows into other worlds that make our own feel richer. Whether it is his beloved historical documentaries or something romantic —our exercises crushed, (his) work conquered, and stories that linger long after the credits roll.

    My advice is to pair this show with your own unwind ritual: maybe some cozy socks, a charcuterie board, (or a nut butter snack?!) or just the comfort of someone you love beside you.

  • From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    I will say it out loud, no shame: I used to want to be a full-on Sugar Baby. Not the cheap fantasy version you see online, but the real thing—pampered, polished, and possessed by a man who could afford to keep me dripping in luxury and attention. I was never on Seeking Arrangements or any of those sites, but when I got really sick, that dream became my secret lifeline. While my body was failing me, my mind was busy painting a future where I was not disabled anymore. I imagined myself as this feminine goddess: luscious long hair cascading down my back, completely hairless and smooth everywhere that mattered, skinny, full makeup—the whole package. The kind of girl men could not look away from.

    I joined a private Facebook group full of girls who knew exactly how to weaponize their femininity. They taught me how to dress, how to move, how to speak, how to flirt with power and money. Every post, every tip, every “how to make him obsessed” thread lit a fire under me. It gave me something to fight for on the worst days. While I was stuck in a wheelchair, I was mentally rehearsing the version of me that would turn heads and drain wallets. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to be admired. Craved. Spoiled. Chosen. Deep down, I did not feel worthy of any of it yet—but that fantasy made me believe I could be.

    And then… it actually happened.

    When we first connected on Twitter (yes, Twitter, before Elon Musk saved us with X) the sugar baby lifestyle was all that I hoped for and I absolutely was not looking for anything real. Commitment? Hard pass. Feelings? Too risky. But attention and shiny new toys? Those I could handle. So that was what I settled for. I strung him along, playing it cool, dropping hints about what I wanted without ever sounding desperate. He read between the lines perfectly.

    He knew the game from the jump. I gave him a PO Box instead of my real address at first—safety first,—and every single week, like clockwork, a new package would show up. AirPods? Delivered with a cheeky video of him on the Apple website ordering them while I was lounging in Cabo, both of us convinced our flirty Twitter phase was fizzling out. A Pretty Woman DVD (yes, an actual physical DVD, the man has taste and nostalgia). Barstool Sports gear for days because we bonded hard over the unfiltered sports talk that made us both laugh like idiots. He spoiled me rotten, and I let him. No guilt. No apologies.

    Every girl should experience sugar baby vibes at least once. There is something powerfully feminine about being pursued, pampered, and provided for while you keep your little heart in a little locked box. The hundred-dollar Venmos, the surprise drops, the thrill of knowing he is thinking about you every time he swipes his card—it is intoxicating. It is not just about the stuff. It is the power dynamic. The way it makes you feel desired, expensive, worth the chase.

    But then it got real. 

    The constant contact—the good-morning texts, the voice notes that made me smirk in public, the weekends that turned into three hour-long FaceTime coffee dates—started cracking my walls. What began as “he buys me things, I give him attention” slowly became I can’t quit him. The sugar daddy arrangement was the gateway drug, but the real addiction was him. His humor. His voice. The way he matched my chaotic energy and then some.

    Now? He still pays my bills. No more random Venmos, but the support is deeper, steadier, sexier in its reliability. He is not just a sugar daddy anymore—he is my man. My love. My favorite person on the planet.

    Yet those Baby and Daddy vibes? They never left. They evolved into something deliciously playful and immature that keeps the spark filthy and fun.

    We act like absolute children together. The kind of childish that involves wrestling over the remote (when we are physically together), ridiculous nicknames, and the kind of uncontrollable laughter that turns into happy tears and breathless squeals. I have never laughed as hard in my life as I do with him. The squeals he pulls out of me—they are embarrassing and addictive. When we first started talking, I used to slap my hand over my mouth— hiding my crooked smile from his view. We are talking full-on belly laughs that leave my abs sore and my face hurting. Pure, unfiltered joy. The man makes me happy in a way I did not know was possible. The kind of happy that makes you glow, that makes everyone side-eye you like, “Who the hell are you right now?”

    There is something profoundly hot about a relationship that can go from “Daddy’s spoiling his baby” to deep, soul-quenching love without losing the playfulness. The power exchange is still there. He provides, I tease. He leads, I challenge. He has me feeling both safe and completely unraveled.  A feeling I never expected. I thought that I would be the other woman. Or a sugar baby. Not the main event. 

    So if a man is willing to show up for you like that—financially, emotionally, playfully—do not be afraid to lean in. Sugar baby energy is not about being shallow; it is about knowing your worth and letting someone prove they can match it. And when the gifts turn into genuine love, when the “arrangement” becomes “forever,” it hits different. Deeper. Wetter. Louder.

    I went from stringing him along with a PO Box to being completely, stupidly in love with the man who still makes me feel like the most spoiled and cherished woman alive—went from a sick girl who did not feel worthy of being looked at to the woman who gets spoiled, and loved so intensely/passionately it leaves me ruined for anyone else.

    And those squeals? They are just getting started.

  • Stop Romanticizing the Past: Embrace Today

    Stop Romanticizing the Past: Embrace Today

    We have all heard it. We have all said it. “Man, things were better back then.” People are always yearning for the good old days—start appreciating everything today:

    Nostalgia is not a memory—it is a seductive liar.

    It edits out the bad.

    The ugly.

    We airbrush the boredom, the limited choices, the untreated depression, the rotten teeth (yay for healthcare!) and the way information trickled so slowly that ignorance felt like wisdom. I kind of do wish we ladies were still dumb, though… I rely more on my man to know what is going on in the world so that I can just be delulu about things.

    And while we are busy pining for that heavily filtered past, the actual miracles are all around us right now. We are living in the most abundant, connected, opportunistic era in human history, and most of us are too busy doom-scrolling and whining to notice.

    Technology seems to be sprinting. AI that writes better essays than most college students. Instant access to the entire library of human knowledge in your pocket. You can video call your grandmother on another continent while ordering takeout that arrives piping hot. And still, people scroll past miracles to complain that their coffee order took four minutes instead of three.

    This change terrifies people. It always has. That is why every generation thinks the next one is doomed. But here is my hot take: your nostalgia is a coping mechanism for your fear of the unknown. It is easier to idealize 1997 than confront 2026. People are afraid. What is going to happen tomorrow or next month?

    It seems easier to romanticize rotary phones than master and learn the new tools.

    Stop yearning. Start appreciating—aggressively.

    The secret is not in the past. It is in the lens. Shift it—or stay miserable.

    Look at your smartphone not as a distraction device but as a doorway for wonder. With it, you can learn a language in weeks, watch a live surgery in Tokyo, or hear the voice of someone who died decades ago (I know… Creepy.) We treat these luxuries like it is normal. It is not. It is insane.

    We find food in our grocery stores from every corner of the world. Planes and automobiles have actually united us. We consume other cultures and cuisines. This is the true meaning of America.

    Surgery and modern medicine (despite its faults) make it absolutely insane to continue complaining about the small aches and pains. Some of us do not even walk; are you really going to cry about a hangnail?

    The internet has also demolished geographic and social barriers. You can meet your person- someone who actually matches your weird frequency- instead of settling for the least awful option within a 10-mile radius. I personally would despise settling down with someone from around here. The old days had arranged marriages and shotgun weddings. We now have sad dating apps and yes, we rate each other based on our looks. So yes, trade-offs exist, but pretending the past was pure romance is historical fan-fiction.

    In a culture addicted to outrage and comparison, choosing to appreciate the present is rebellious. It is punk rock. It flips off the algorithm that profits from dissatisfaction. People really do love to complain, criticize, and comment.

    Essentially, the world is blossoming with possibility while you are staring at old yearbooks. One thing that has always bothered me is that most of our bodies are a biological marvel capable of running, dancing, orgasming, and healing—and yet people are mad about theirs not looking like a filtered influencer. It is called do something about it—if a disabled girl can lose more than one hundred pounds, you can do anything. The body is truly a marvel.

    The mind is too.
    Your mind can comprehend quantum physics (or silly girly things—like writing a blog!) and write love poems, yet you use it to relive 2008 politics.

    The good old days are a trap. They keep you small, bitter, and blind to the abundance screaming for your attention. Every moment you spend mourning a myth is a moment stolen from building something better.

    The world is changing so fast that if you blink too long in nostalgia, you will miss the best parts of being alive right here, right now. The coffee is hot. The internet works—until the power goes out, because living in the woods is great. Your heart is beating. The future is wide open.

    Appreciate it all—fiercely, obnoxiously, unapologetically.

    Or keep complaining. The past will not care, and the present will keep delivering miracles whether you notice them or not.

    The choice is yours. But only one of them feels like living.

  • The Princess Within: Embracing My Damsel in Distress Heart

    The Princess Within: Embracing My Damsel in Distress Heart

    From the moment I could dream, I wanted to be a princess. Not just any princess—This was not a fleeting childhood whim; it was the quiet heartbeat of my entire life. Even now, as an adult, that little girl inside me still looks at the world through tinted glasses. She hopes for magic and rescue. She dreams of a love that feels like it was written in the stars.

    Ever since I was a little girl, fairy tales were never just bedtime stories. They were blueprints for how life should feel. I grew up listening to different princess stories than you. I mean every culture has its own rendition of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White. I devoured these stories. I was captivated by the princesses’ grace under pressure. Their kindness eventually led to their happily ever afters. I did not just want the happy ending; I wanted the entire experience. I longed for the gentle spoiling by a doting prince (and life itself). I yearned for the soft protection from the world’s harsher realities. I craved that undeniable sense of being seen and valued.

    I craved being spoiled by life in the sweetest ways. Surprise flowers would delight me. Someone remembering my favorite coffee order on a bad day would lift my spirits. I cherished simply feeling like the universe had my back. Beside my desire for abundance and delight, I also deeply wanted to be saved. I longed to be rescued from sadness and loneliness. I yearned to escape the weight of carrying everything alone. I wanted arms that would wrap around me and say, “You don’t have to be strong right now. I got you.”

    This is not about laziness or entitlement. It is about yearning for a softer existence. One where my vulnerability is met with strength and my sensitivity is celebrated rather than criticized.

    Of course, every good fairytale needs its villain, right? In my story, my cousin first played that role. I affectionately refer to her as my “evil stepsister.” Growing up, her teasing and bullying left deep marks on my young heart. She was seemingly perfect and she made sure I knew that I was not perfect. Her actions portrayed her as the ideal antagonist in my personal fairytale. I continued to question my worth throughout my life because of it. 

    Essentially, those experiences did not break me—they shaped me. They reinforced my identity as the misunderstood princess waiting for her turning point. I learned to retreat into my imagination, where I could be graceful and worthy instead of awkward and overlooked. I built emotional walls disguised as daydreams. I always held out hope that one day my real story would begin. To this day, my mother loves to tell me that I live in lala land. 

    Looking back, I see how that dynamic taught me resilience, even if it hurt at the time. But it also cemented something deeper: my tendency to frame my entire life around the “damsel in distress” archetype. (Thank you Pretty Woman!)

    I have basically organized my whole existence around this identity, and I am finally okay admitting it. I love romance that feels epic. I adore knights in shining armor who make me feel protected and adored. I thrive when life offers little sadness and provides moments of pampering. But unfortunately it is  not all sparkle and glass slippers. It means I feel emotions intensely—joy like fireworks, sadness like storms.

    I have had moments where I wondered if this part of me was too much. I have turned to my boyfriend with wide eyes and asked, “Am I simply too much?” His responses have been patient and loving. They remind me that wanting to feel cherished is not a flaw—it is a feature. I am not terribly spoiled. I do not demand the impossible or throw tantrums when things do not go my way. I just carry this princess heart. It believes life can be kinder. Relationships can be more. I deserve to be treated with tenderness.

    This identity has influenced my career choices (or lack thereof), my friendships, and especially my romantic life. I seek connections where I can be soft without being seen as weak. I want to give my all to someone who sees my sensitivity as a gift, not a burden. And yes, I still believe in being saved sometimes. It is not because I am helpless. It is because partnership should include lifting each other up.  And I know that I inspire/ motivate him.

    The older I get, the more I realize that being a princess does not mean waiting in a tower forever. It means wearing the crown despite the life limitations that are around me. 

    I still want the magic. I still hope for grand gestures and quiet moments of being adored. But I am also writing my own story now. In this story, the princess has agency—does not just lay down. She attracts people who match her energy rather than just rescue her from it. 

    So here I am—still that little girl at heart, but with bigger dreams and a stronger sense of self. Proving that wanting softness in a hard world is not weakness and craving love that feels protective and spoiling is not childish.

    Life has not always been a fairytale, but I am learning to create the chapters I always wanted. And who knows? Maybe my prince is already here while still leaving room for a little magic.

  • Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion

    Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion

    Every single morning, I whisper sleepy sweet nothings to my man. After that, I rise with fire in my veins. I spend the entire day fighting against the disability that constantly tries to drag me down.

    I push this stubborn, trembling body to its absolute breaking point. I lean hard against the bathroom counter while brushing my teeth. My legs shake as I take selfies for him in the mirror. I refuse to let weakness win. In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter. I make my espresso with gritted teeth. My knees threaten to snap back beneath me. I refuse to constantly sit in a wheelchair. I refuse to strap on those ugly, soul-crushing leg braces that would mark me as conquered.(Only HE is allowed to do that!).

    A physical therapist once looked me dead in the eye. She suggested I stop relying on my mother to drive me to appointments. She calmly recommended I call a WHEELCHAIR VAN! It would pick me up and drop me off. She acted like I was some fragile invalid. The words barely left her mouth before I shut that shit down. I was not feeling it. The idea of being loaded and unloaded like cargo made my blood boil. The thought of sitting in a wheelchair instead of the seat of a car was infuriating. I told her no, thank you, and never went back. Now I get down onto the floor everyday and do my own exercises, No van needed. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let anyone reduce me to a scheduled pickup in a van built for surrender.

    Life keeps trying to force me onto my ass. There is even a goddamn chair sitting right there in my shower like a permanent joke . Most days I have no choice but to sit under the hot water like a broken doll while it cascades over me. But the only time I truly get to stand—proud, naked, water streaming down my body—is when my man steps in behind me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he holds me upright so I can clean myself. I love the way he steadies me, the way his hard body presses against mine, keeping me vertical through pure possessive strength while steam fills the air. In those heated moments I feel rebelliously alive, even as my legs scream and tremble beneath me.

    I face that humiliating chair and the endless war with gravity everyday. Yet, I reject every medical enhancement. I refuse every synthetic crutch and modern healthcare. I do not believe in any of it. If it is meant to be, it is meant to be. If sickness is coming for you, it will find you. It does not matter how many pills, injections, gene therapies, or experimental treatments they invent. All the advances in medicine are nothing more than dressed up as progress.

    I will not be synthetically made better.  
    I refuse to be rebuilt, patched, upgraded, or artificially propped up like some defective machine.  
    Only the natural way.  
    Only the forever way.

    And my hands? That is another story. For over fifteen years now, I have had the use of only my right hand. My left hand is dead weight, a silent traitor that sways useless at my side while I fight like hell. I have mastered one-handed shoe tying, buttoning, and zipping. I have learned to handle my personal hygiene with stubborn grace. However, some cooking (chopping, etc) and deep cleaning are still slow and frustrating for me. They are nowhere near as efficient as I demand of myself. I practice longer to get better physically. I refuse to accept the limitation. My ultimate goal is to do it all for my man. I want to cook his meals with these one-and-a-half hands. I want to deep clean our home until it shines, all for him. I want to serve HIM. I want to care for him. My broken body can still rise up and give him everything he deserves.

    This is my daily mantra. It is my middle finger to disability and to weakness. It defies a world obsessed with comfort and “fixing” every imperfection. I choose to feel every tremor, every ache, every exhausting victory on my own raw terms. I lean on counters instead of rolling in chairs. I am held up by my lover’s grip instead of cold metal and plastic. I struggle one-handed. I am eager for the day when I can entirely care for the man I love.

    In a society that worships ease and vulnerability, I stand as a living, breathing, unapologetic rebellion. My legs may shake and threaten to give out. My left hand may be useless dead weight. However, my spirit is lava. I will keep going every single day. I will keep whispering filthy sweet nothings into my man’s ear at night. I will keep fighting with everything I have left.

    This is how I love.  
    This is how I fight.  
    This is how I remain fiercely, provocatively, alive.

  • Americana.

    Americana.

    I have lived in the tiny town of Snohomish, Washington,since I was seven years old. Snohomish is not flashy. It is not Seattle. It is the kind of place where you grow up slow. The biggest drama is who forgot to lock the barn. In Snohomish, “good morning” still means something.

    I used to hate that. I wanted to be a big city girl (ala Samantha Jones in Sex and the City). I even went away from the public school I was supposed to attend. I did this so I could dress and be a little more high class. 

    The girls who live in Snohomish pride themselves for living in a Bodunk town. “Fancy” usually means that you will sink into the muddy fields. It is not the norm.  But I did not like that. I did not want to wear pajamas and slippers to class. I wanted to wear stilettos and I dreamt of living in a penthouse. 

     None of that ended up happening. It became dangerous to even visit a city. Now I have a different perspective of this small town. It feels like living inside a postcard and that postcard smells like rain and fresh-cut grass most days. 

    This town is tiny, maybe ten thousand people. Main Street still looks like it did in the nineteen-twenties. It has brick storefronts, a hardware store that sells everything from nails to fudge, and diners. The river runs right through the middle—Snohomish River, wide and slow. Packed with sunburned locals in July. Around here, summers are for the county fair (something that I do not partake in). It is not the flashy kind with Ferris wheels taller than trees. It’s just a dusty field off Second Street, filled with goats baaa-ing, cotton candy, and sketchy ride operators. Winters are quieter. Fog rolls in off of Puget Sound like a blanket, and school buses crawl through it, headlights glowing. 

    People here do not rush. You wave at strangers because you have seen them before— since the town is so small. Everyone knows everyone’s business. They do not judge, or at least, they do not judge out loud. This was new to this little Russian girl. I left for college, came back since. The river still smells the same. The hardware store still sells fudge. And yes it rains, but it rains softly— as if this place is giving you a hug. 

    I want to share this hug with the love of my life. Convincing my boyfriend to move out to Washington state was like my experience of recognizing my hometown in the past. It is different from the postcard version I see now. 

    While we would not be living in Snohomish, small towns are so much more attractive than the big bad cities. While I do not want to dress like a slob or float down a river in the summer— I would rather that than be raped by an immigrant and encounter needles in the storefronts.  He would rather cheer for the teams that his family has always supported and not be surrounded by “aw shucks” coworkers. 

    So I do not belong in Snohomish, Washington, but I have definitely developed an appreciation for small towns. I might live in a small “Americana” town in Montana or the Carolinas. Wherever I end up, I will always waive “hello” and will not judge (out loud). 

  • Coping with the Negativity.

    Coping with the Negativity.

    The first thirty minutes upon waking, program your brain for the rest of your day. I read that somewhere so it must be true. I always start my day with HIM. My boyfriend. Any dutiful woman should. 

    And because it is important that you find positivity in your life, I find it in him. My boyfriend makes the dark days brighter—even when he does not know it. There is this thing he does without trying: he turns my worst moods into something bearable. I mean— I am actually generally a positive person. I am a disabled thirty-six year old girl who still lives with her parents. I am thousands of miles away from the man I love. Given my status in this life, it would be understandable if I was genuinely down. 

    I receive plenty of criticism. People who love me, like my parents, criticize me. Also, the world at large thinks I am not living my life correctly. Everyone seems to have an opinion on how I should live my life. All I can really do is drown out all of this negativity around me. I choose to live for myself and my beautiful future ahead. 

    Right now we have to do it virtually through technology (is it really our fault that we met thousands of miles apart?) Because of the time difference (*eye roll*), he wakes me up at three every morning before he starts his day. We whisper sweet nothings to each other. He sends me videos of him making his espresso (real men drink espresso). He knows that makes me insanely happy and proud. Then I drift off to sleep until he gets to work. It’s about an hour—maybe two if I sleep in. Because that is what a committed person does— supports the person they love. 

     I do not require grand gestures or therapy-speak from him —just his being there for me. And honestly? It is weird how much that matters. I often feel alone— criticized, ignored— like no one cares about what I think or say. He does not argue. He does not fix. But goddammit— he listens. 

    At times, I do not even want to smile. But, because of him, I usually do. And suddenly the room feels less heavy. It is not that he erases the bad stuff. Life still happens—that gnawing anxiety I cannot shake. But he is like… a filter. Everything gets softer around him. 

    How he tells me to scream and cry because he gets it. I need that release. I am so tired of keeping everything in. How he entertains my passions. I go on rants about a topic that I love, and he just lets me talk. And how excited he gets for me when I achieve a personal success. 

    I know that sounds stupid. But to me it is pretty perfect. People talk about love like it is fireworks. They criticize us for not obeying their rules. But our love feels more like a lamp in a storm—quiet, steady, just enough light to see the next step. He does not solve my problems (not yet at least!). He just reminds me they are not the whole story.

    Sometimes, I worry I lean too hard on him, like I am borrowing his calm because mine ran out. He does not realize he is the reason I breathe easier. That I smile every time I wake up (even if it is at three in the morning). So here is the truth: he doesn’t fix my negative life. He just makes it feel smaller. And for now, that is enough.

  • Physically.

    Physically.

    I am still buzzing from last week —just lying there, tangled up in sheets, his arm slung over me. 

    I swear, nothing feels better than finally being in the same room as him. No more FaceTime lag, no more “can you hear me?”—just his stupid grin, his real voice, the way he smells like his high end cologne collection. I melt every time he opens his arms towards me . Like, actually melt. My shoulders drop, my jaw unclenches, and suddenly the whole past —my parents criticisms, constantly feeling ignored and not understood —evaporates. 

    He does not even have to say anything. Just stands there, arms open . We did not do grand gestures. No roses, no playlists. Only sweet treats waiting for me upon arrival. Then him flopping onto the hotel bed, me curling into his side like it is the only spot that fits. His hand finds mine—always does—like it’s muscle memory. And I think, “God, this is it”. This is what I have been waiting for.

    The best part? He gets quiet too. Like he knows I need five minutes of nothing—just us breathing, the TV on mute, his thumb rubbing slow circles on my knee. I could stay like that forever. I do not care if it sounds sappy. I am happy. Not content or fine—happy. The kind that makes my chest ache a little, like it is too big for my ribs. And yeah, I miss him. But right now? I guess I just wait. 

    The waiting is terrible but necessary and I hope —temporary. When the bleed took my body away from me, I was waiting to go back to university (I thought I would physically be back on campus), but instead, my parents made me apply online and finally finish my Bachelor’s degree TEN YEARS LATER. Then came the waiting for my recovery—I realized that I wasn’t made for the indoctrination and fake “wokeness” of the “real world.”

    But when I met my man I thought that this waiting was over. He loves me as I am—so I no longer needed to rush anything or force myself into school/ work. 

    I found that in these settings, I was constantly being penalized for having the “wrong “ opinions in my essays and papers, but would immediately be rewarded and praised as soon as I brought up my disability. I did not want to use my situation as a crutch. I hate pity.  So I chose to be myself. A little right wing, conservative and definitely against any kind of diversity. And everyone hated that. Except the love of my life. 

    But when I am back home alone again—in my own little bubble—the quiet hits different—like the rooms are too big without him breathing next to me. I miss the way he rolls over and pulls me closer—I keep replaying it: his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back, the way he mumbles to me even though I’m already half-asleep. It’s stupid how much I crave that—his weight, his heat, the dumb little sounds he makes when he is dreaming. And yeah, I know it is cheesy to say out loud, but… I am happy.

     Like, stupid-happy. Not the Instagram-filter kind—just the real, messy, I-cannot-believe-this is-mine kind. I never had this before. Was I ever truly happy?  I manipulated my way into graduating with straight As and everything else I had done was always done through force or for someone else. This is mine. My life. My happiness. So here’s to him. To us. To every second I get to be physically right there, skin on skin, no screens, no distance—just him and me and this ridiculous, perfect quiet… I guess I have to go back to waiting for this feeling again.