to love and not ruin it

July 8, 2023

I remember standing by the rooftop of a hotel in Kathmandu. The rain fell in these endless streaks, each drop racing like it had somewhere important to be, while I stayed stuck in the same place. I stared at the raindrops, wondering if they felt free as they fell, or if they just hit the ground and disappeared, unnoticed like they were never there. Everything felt heavier then—the air, the expectations, the way time dragged and pulled me along.

I started journaling that summer, in this worn-out notebook I found in my cousin’s room. I thought writing everything down would make it clearer, like seeing the words would help me make sense of them. They didn’t. I kept at it anyway, not knowing what it was or if it was even real—trying to make things better, moving toward this idea of “something,” even though I didn’t know what that “something” was, or if it was a standard worth chasing. And if it was, would my standard always stay the same as whatever I chose to run after?

August 3, 2023, 9:47 PM

I looked in the mirror today. The face felt distant. I used to care—now, it’s just there. It’s not that I hate it; it’s more like I’m looking at someone I’ve been dragging along, just trying to keep up with the day. I told myself, “It’s fine,”. It wasn’t. But I said it anyway because it’s easier than unpacking why it’s not.

I think about that a lot, though—the small routines, the little things that no one else notices but make up most of life. It’s the “what-ifs” that stay with you. Not what happened, but what could have. The moments that almost were. They linger. The process, the plans, and so-called direction. I’m too tired of pretending, walking a path that doesn’t lead anywhere, or worse—loops back on itself. What if there’s no meaning to any of it? No grand arc, no destination. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it’s not. All I know is the silence burdens me when I stop, so I keep moving. Not forward, not toward anything—just moving, like motion alone will make sense of it all.

This idea that maybe I’m meant for something else or something different. But, what does that even mean?

September 21, 2023

I recognize that devotion based on idealization is fragile. And that’s terrifying: being seen in all your unfiltered ugliness and yet not being rejected. It almost feels brutal to be loved so wholly. It’s unsettling to realize that our presentation to the world, even to those we crave love from, is a performance. Yet, there’s a bitter solace in knowing that such profound grief is borne out of profound love. And it bores us. Maybe it’s because some of us need an audience. Not in a performative, attention-seeking way—okay, maybe a little of that—but more like validation.

But why is it that love just another act for most? Two people running the same tired lines, hoping the other doesn’t catch on convincing enough for the other to stay? What happens when “I love you” just means, “Please don’t leave,” and every vulnerable moment feels like a rehearsed line you’re too scared to fuck up? Then love isn’t real. It’s just two people decorating their loneliness with half-truths and forced intimacy, hoping it doesn’t collapse under the weight of what they’re too scared to admit.

So you curate, with all the pretty pieces of yourselves that you think the other wants to see, hiding and praying they don’t notice the parts you don’t even like about yourself. But is that love? At some point, it stops. Instead of protecting, it smothers. It shrinks you down, piece by piece, until the person underneath is almost unrecognizable—even to you. And it’s terrifying. Love hurts. Because to be loved for who you really are means letting someone close enough to destroy you. Maybe that’s why we cling so hard to the old versions of ourselves, convinced they are necessary to avoid becoming vulnerable. The possibility of someone looking at us and saying, “I don’t want this,” terrifies us.

December 5, 2023

I grew up hearing that as a man, you only cry twice: when your parents die—and even then, you make sure no one sees it. A man is supposed to be inhumane to emotions, a provider, a leader. From the moment someone tells us to "man up" or "stop being so sensitive," we start tucking away the parts of ourselves we think aren’t lovable.

Alone in this, everything feels subdued. Not silent or devoid of life, but muted, like the very essence of existence is slowly being drained. We all drag our pasts into love—baggage, old heartbreaks, the childhood lessons about affection that taught us it was always conditional, the moments we waited for something that never came. Or maybe I’m just tired of trying. I live in this contradiction: I crave to be seen, yet I fear the intimacy it demands. I want the attention, but I fear what it might expose. We learn to carry it, but it's weight that burdens you. Not the love itself—that’s almost intangible. What weighs us down is the fear. Fear of losing it. Fear of holding on too much and crushing it. Fear of giving too much and yet becoming nothing.

We are desperate for connection. Scrambling for something to hold onto. All we want is for someone to look us in the eye and say, “I see you. I fucking see you.” And when that moment finally comes, we choke. We shy away, terrified of what they’ll find. So we stay distant. Stay alone. We break eye contact, shrink back into ourselves, throw on that armor, and pretend we don’t need it.

It stays buried deep. Kept safe under layers of detachment because showing it feels like death.

December 28, 2023

My parents, their greatest achievement is me. They don’t even have lives of their own anymore. Everything they do is tied to me, and it’s suffocating. They’ve pedestaled me so high I can’t breathe, but simultaneously dragged me down so much that self-love feels like expectations. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t mine. Sometimes, even when it’s everything you think you want, it’s still not enough. And that’s okay. But they weren’t just flawed—they were lost humans, same as me. That’s what hurts the most: their humanity. Because if they’re human, so am I. And that means I am just as capable of failing.

We want to feel loved because we think we deserve it. But love isn’t about deserving; it’s about needing. And may be needing isn’t love either. You offer pieces of yourself, hoping someone will hold them gently, but more often than not, they’re crushed under the weight of someone else’s baggage. You think about the ways you’ve been molded, shaped by voices that aren’t yours. Family, society, culture—everyone has a piece of you before you even understand what "you" is. And by the time you do, it’s too late.

March 1, 2024

Everything is work. It’s the sacrifices without needing a round of applause. People love to tell you to 'just be authentic, just be clever, just be smart,' like it’s some simple thing you can just decide one day. But when was the last time you sat with yourself and asked, "Who the fuck am I really?" You don’t just get to decide one day. It takes time. It takes mistakes. It takes failures. You fuck up, you try again, and you repeat. And it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks anymore. That’s the only work that matters. Because in the end, the only person who needs to accept you is you, and that’s the truest form of love you will ever get.

But is it? Wanting love only for what you find lovable misses the point entirely. It sounds romantic, sure, but it’s not love—just self-romanticized bullshit.

August 18, 2024

You meet people, you vibe, maybe even fall in love for a moment. College nights blurs into mornings, and you start to wonder if it was all just a series of passing phases—or if you missed something more. For every friend, there’s a day they can’t stay, and you’re left alone. We drift through life, colliding with people who feel like they could stay forever, but they don’t.

For every friend, there’s an inevitable day when they leave, and you’re left piecing together fragments of memories that don’t fit anymore. The absence hurts, but it’s a hurt I’ve grown used to. You try to hold on, but friendships, like so many other things, are just stories we tell ourselves to let go off the creeping emptiness.

I’ve tried to love people. I’ve tried to attach. But I’ve never really seen people as more than phases—temporary presences drifting in and out of my life. Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever learned how to see people as emotions or distractions. We try to hold on to the moments, the laughs, the late-night talks, but eventually, they fade.

We meet, we laugh, we share, and then they move on. And I’m left piecing together memories that no longer fit, wondering if they ever did. We meet people, share lives, and give pieces of ourselves. They move on, you move on, and all that’s left is the realization that it never really mattered. None of it ever does.

September 17, 2024

By the end of that summer, I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was just doing things for the sake of doing them, hoping they’d add up. They didn’t. All I’d done was fill pages with messy, half-formed thoughts. The rain stopped, the notebook stayed in a drawer, and I was no closer to whatever I was chasing. I stared out the window, watching the rain stop. It wasn’t dramatic or life-changing. There was no epiphany, no moment where everything clicked into place. But it was ok. For once, I wasn’t chasing, running, or avoiding. I just let it be, understanding you cannot force something that does not exist or try to fix it. And maybe that’s enough. I’ve stopped trying to define myself by what I achieve or how far I go. It’s not perfect, and it’s not always enough. But for now, it’s something. And maybe that’s all it needs to be.

October 5, 2024

You waited for someone to come, to pull you out, to fix it. But no one ever does. They never do. And now, like always, it’s on you to figure out how to live in this brokenness. You hate them for not fixing you, even as you understand: it was never their burden to carry.

Good doesn’t last, they fade, and you’re left with things that feel more like ghosts. Slowly, you start to realize that nothing stays the same. Nothing is forever. Everything you care about will eventually slip away. Ghosts don’t leave; they multiply. The world is full of them, walking alongside the living. This is the weight of it all: the slow decay of happiness. The world teaches you, little by little, that nothing is whole, nothing lasts. And in that between—maybe even because of it—happiness becomes something rare. It no longer comes freely; you drag it out of everything.

You need them to validate you, to reflect your worth back at you, because you can’t see it yourself. When they don’t—when they can’t—anger rushes in to fill the gap. You resent them for not fixing you, for not loving you in the way you imagined love should feel and then you understand: It’s not about love.

October 8, 2024

Would I even recognize myself without this pain? It’s become so much a part of me that I don’t know where it ends and I begin.

That thought terrifies me. What if I carry this forever? What if I let it define me? Or worse—what if I don’t, and I forget everything?

Always,

With love,

Sandesh