Are You Also a Doll? There is a certain kind of silence that screams louder than words. It’s the silence of a woman who has spent months decoding a man’s moods, cheering his ambition, sitting by his chaos, only to realize she was never more than a doll dressed in warmth, programmed to understand, and always returned to the shelf when the game got too real. Welcome to the age of emotionally unavailable men. And welcome, dear reader, to the showroom of modern relationships where love is on display, vulnerability is out of stock, and empathy has been discontinued. The Doll Test Let’s begin with a question. Have you ever been made to feel like the more you cared, the less you were wanted? The more you understood him, the more he withdrew? The more patient you were, the more indifferent he became? If your answer is *yes*, welcome. You might be a doll too. Not the kind that’s adored—but the kind that is expected to sit still. A mute companion for his emotional convenience. A curated audience...
Posts
Spare Me the Truth
I don’t want the truth if it comes with knives. I don’t want honesty if it tastes like poison. I am done swallowing swords disguised as “what you deserve to know.” If there’s something I shouldn’t know... don’t tell me. If your lips have tasted someone else’s skin... don’t tell me. If your hands have memorized a body that wasn’t mine... don’t confess. If your eyes have lingered too long on another, if your heart skipped for someone else, just swallow it. Bury it. I don’t want to know. I don't want to see the skeletons. I don't want the blood-soaked truths wrapped in apologies. I just want stillness. Silence. Sanity. Lie to me if you must.. if the truth will break me. Let me live in delusion if it means I can sleep at night without clutching my own chest to keep it from falling apart. Give me illusions. Give me comfort. Paint over the cracks in this reality with golden lies if it keeps me warm. Because the truth? The truth has teeth. And I am too tired of b...
The Morning After
They don’t tell you about the silence. Not in the movies. Not in the stories. But for us, it was always the morning after. That’s when I knew you still loved me. You see, we used to fight.. not often, but hard. The kind of fights where no one really wins, where words feel heavier than fists and the silence afterward rings louder than any door slam. And I had go to bed angry, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it could somehow hold me better than you did that night. But then morning would come. Soft. Slow. Almost apologetic. And every time.. without fail.. you had kiss my forehead. Like a habit. Like a promise. Like saying, I still choose you, even after all that. You never thought I knew. But I always did. I had keep my eyes closed just long enough for you to think I was still asleep. Just long enough to hold the moment between us..that quiet, sacred thing..a little longer. I never told you how much I loved those mornings. I didn’t want you to know that I waited for the...
Banana Pancake
I know what love looks like at 6:13 in the morning. It’s sunlight slipping through the cracks of red curtains, landing soft on your cheek, and the way your arms pull me in tighter like you’re afraid the dream will end if you let go. I never needed an alarm clock after that..not when your chest rising and falling was louder than any ring tone in the world. I close the curtains so you can sleep a little longer. I whisper, “Good morning,” but only loud enough for the walls to know. You hold my hand while I slip into my shirt, like you can’t trust the air to keep me close. And I smile, because I like being missed even in my own kitchen. I walk in slow, the floor cold but the thought of making you pancakes warmer than fire. Banana ones..the ones you don’t even like. And coffee you won’t drink. But I make them anyway, because love isn’t about taste, it’s about offering. About effort. About showing up again and again in small, ordinary ways. You wake up with ...
घ्यू भरेको डिब्बा
प्रिय आमा, तिमीभन्दा टाढा हुँदा हप्तामा एकपटक समय निकालेर फोन गर्थें, सम्झन्छु... सधैं उही गुनासो : “फोन गरिराख्न मिल्दैन?” तिमी भन्छ्यौ : “एक डिब्बा घ्यू हालेर पठाइ दिन्छु, सकेसम्म दिनदिनै थोरैथोरै खानु।” मेरी आमा, तिमीले मलाई थोरै थोरै गरेर खाइरहनु भन्छ्यौ, तर म थोरै थोरै गरेर आफैँलाई गुमाइरहेकी छु। तिमीले हप्तामा एकपटक फोन गर भनेर गुनासो गर्यौ, फुर्सद निकालेर गरें, र फेरि उही आवाज : “फोन किन उठेन? पानी खाइस् कि? ए... म त एक डिब्बा घ्यू राखेकी छु, सके थोरै थोरै गरेर खाइजा।” तिमीले मलाई कहिल्यै नछोड्ने एउटा डिब्बा दिन थाल्यौ, सकेपछि फेरि ल्याउने गर्यौ, त्यही पुरानो डिब्बा, नयाँ मायाले भरिएको। तर आमा, कहिल्यै सोधिनौ : “तँ पनि त रित्तिँदै गइरहेकी छेस् है?” छोरी हुनु भनेको, सधैं आमा भएर बाँच्नु रहेछ .. आफ्ना घाउहरू लुकाउँदै, अरूका आँशु पुछ्दै। मेरी आमा, तिमीले मलाई हरेक कुरा सिकायौ, तर नरम हुन कहिल्यै दिनौ। तिमी आफैं नरम हुन पाइनौ। छोरी हुनु शाप तब बन्छ, जब माया दिनेलाई माया माग्न लाज लाग्छ .. किनभने हामीलाई 'देऊ' भनेर होइन, 'सह' भनेर हुर्काइयो। त...
The Ride Back Home
One day, I will just go. No note. No message. No goodbye. I won’t scream. I won’t cry. I won’t explain. I’ll just disappear.. like I was never a chapter in your story. Just a forgotten paragraph that meant everything to me, and nothing to you. And you’ll wonder. You’ll scroll through our old texts. You’ll call, maybe once, maybe a hundred times. You’ll look at my photos. Stare at them like they might blink back. You’ll ask yourself..what happened? What did you say? What did you do? Where did it all go wrong? And still, you won’t remember. You won’t remember what you said while we rode back home that day. But I do. I remember every word. I remember how casual it was. How your voice didn’t even flinch. Like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. You said it like you were tossing out trash, and I caught it like it was a bullet. And it stayed there. In me. Buried. Rotting. Growing roots into the corners of my self-worth. And you went on. You laughed that evening. You sle...
What About Me?
I have given bad a chance. Let it whisper into my ears, crawl into my skin, wear its chaos like perfume, thinking maybe pain is a form of love too. I have given fun a chance nights that bled into mornings, laughter echoing off empty walls, grinning through exhaustion, dancing through silence, trying to feel alive by escaping myself. I have given commitment a chance. I have poured my loyalty into hands that trembled to hold it, stitched promises into my spine, stood still while others left because I thought staying meant strength. I have given them all a chance. The ones who couldn’t see me beyond their convenience. The ones I wrote poetry about, even when they barely spoke in prose. I have given forgiveness a chance. So many damn times. Even when the apology never came. Even when the scars were still red. I held out grace like an offering and called it healing. I have given patience a chance. I waited. And waited. For change. For recognition. For love that didn’t hurt. For the wo...
The Popsicle Season
There was a time when a bowl full of noodles made me excited. Sizzling on the stove, steam fogging up the glass. It used to mean comfort.. something warm, something safe. But that week... I couldn’t touch it. I couldn’t stand the smell. It made me gag. Everything did. My favourite perfume.. the one I wore on happy days smelled like poison. My room, the place I used to retreat to, felt like it had been dipped in something rotten. Even the sunlight that filtered through the curtains felt wrong too yellow, too heavy, too loud. I started keeping the windows shut. I stopped playing music. I didn’t want to be seen by the sky. I didn’t want to be heard by the wind. For two whole weeks, all I could eat were popsicles. Mango ones mostly. Not because they were sweet but because they were cold and quiet. They didn’t argue with my stomach. They didn’t remind me of what I was missing. They just melted. And I told myself: maybe this is just a phase. Ju...
The Lie
Good things happen to good people.. Oh, what a lie.What a lie.What a lie. In fairytales maybe… where the villain gets struck down and the kind-hearted peasant becomes a queen. But in real life? Bad people win. They rise, they shine, they take center stage while the good ones sit quietly in the dark, applauding, hoping it’s their turn next. Newsflash: it’s not. I was raised on that lie. Be kind, they said. Be patient. Be selfless. Do the right thing. And life this invisible, magical life will reward you. But life is not a reward system. It doesn’t hand out gold stars. It doesn’t have a checklist for morality. It doesn’t care how many times I bit my tongue, forgave someone who didn’t deserve it, or cried silently just to not hurt anyone else. No. The world doesn’t work like that. You know who gets what they want? The evil. The ruthless. The ones who take without asking. The ones who don’t lose sleep over guilt. Because this system rewards boldness, no...
The house that built me
I Was Raised. Not loved, Not cherished, Not held..just raised. Like a house built with hollow bricks, standing only because it has to, not because anyone cares if it does. I was raised to be quiet, to be small, to be the background noise in a home that only noticed me when something shattered. Oh, but I was seen. Always seen. Seen when the glass cup slipped from my hands and crashed onto the floor. Seen when my mistakes made a sound loud enough to echo through their anger. Seen when I failed, when I faltered, when I didn't meet their expectations. But never when I wanted to be seen. Never when I needed to be. I was heard too. Heard when I was too loud. When my cries were inconvenient. When I spoke words that were too big for them, when my voice trembled with something they didn’t have the patience to understand. Heard when they needed someone to blame. Always someone to blame. But never when I whispered, “I’m...
There’s this world we have created just for us.. One where time slows down, and nothing else matters but you and me. It’s the way you look at me, like I’m the only person who exists in the universe, even in the middle of chaos. It’s the way your voice softens when you say my name, the way your hand fits so perfectly in mine, like it was always meant to be there. It’s the way you love our love and it’s the way how I love our love. I just love our love.. And I do not love you just for the sake of loving.. This is not some frivolous, fleeting affection It is the kind of love that anchors me. There were days when I had nothing left to give, when I stood at the edge of my own emptiness, when even my reflection looked away in pity. And then there was you. Not as a hero to rescue me, but as a quiet, steady presence, a lighthouse for a ship that forgot it had a destination. You reminded me that even broken things can be beautiful. Do you know what it feels like to be ...
I Have A Dream
I dream of waking next to you while the soft light of dawn casts golden rays on your beautiful face. Have you been dreaming of it too? Every dream we’ve shared, every promises we have made,I see us living them. Can you also feel the warmth of our dreams in the morning light already? We’ll greet the day with fingers locked, soft whispers and morning giggles under the blanket, Do you also see us sharing the same sheet? Savoring coffee on the balcony, laughter mingling with birdsong. Can you also hear the melody of our love in the air? Strolling through sun dappled paths, cherishing every moment together. Will you be my companion in every ups and downs through every thick and thins? With unwavering hope and faith, knowing our day will come. Do you also believe in the magic of our love just like I do? Cause , I dream of waking next to you,one day.!
ऐना
जब तिम्रा आँखाहरू ले मलाई एकटक हेरिरहन्छन्.. म विवश हुन्छु.. यो सोच्न.. कि, के साँच्चै म यति सुन्दर छु? कि तिम्रो नजर धमिलिएको छ? तिम्रा ती शब्दहरू.. जसले मलाई फूलजस्तै हलुका महसुस गराउँछन् हरेक वाक्य सँग म आफैंलाई नयाँ रूपमा सिँगारिएको देख्छु.. तर, तिमीले बयान गरेजस्तै देखिन, म कुन ऐनाको सामु उभिनुपर्छ? किनकि भित्तामा झुन्डिएको ऐनाले मलाई साधारण भन्दै छ। अनि, तिम्रो मुस्कानले मलाई भित्ते ऐना अघि उभिएको आफ्नै छवि सँग माया गर्न सिकाइरहेको छ.. तर यो प्रेम हो कि भ्रम? जसले मेरो खाली मुहारलाई.. खुसीले सजाएको छ। जब तिमी मेरो रूपलाई बयान गरिरहन्छौ, म फेरि विवश हुन्छु सोच्न.. के म साँच्चै त्यति प्रिय छु.. जति तिम्रा शब्दहरूले बयान गर्छन्.. र तिम्रा आँखाहरूले बिना झुकाव नियाल्छन्? अनि.. डर ले सताउन थाल्छ.. कि तिम्रा आँखामा बसेको छवि म हैन भने? कि त्यो केवल एक भ्रम मात्र हो भने? तर, फेरि सोच्न बाध्य हुन्छु, जति सुन्दर तिम्रा आँखाहरू छन्, त्यति नै तिम्रो सृष्टि हेर्ने दृष्टि पनि। अनि, जब तिमी मेरो आँखामा हराउँछौ, म आफूलाई ऐनामा हेरूँ जस्तो लाग्छ.. केही क्षण को लागि.. तिमील...
Through Your Eyes
The world becomes so beautiful,vibrant and alive, when seen through your eyes. How you hold the universe in your gaze, like a painter dipping his brush into the infinite colors of dawn. Your eyes see beauty in the smallest things..a raindrop, a fluttering leaf, the way the light touches the earth at dusk. Each moment, you see.. you breathe life into, transforming the ordinary into something extraordinary. Through your eyes, the world isn’t just a place, it’s a canvas of endless possibilities. How even in the darkest moments, you see hope not as a distant dream, but as the warmth in every sunrise. The world is never as cruel, never as cold when you are there to remind it of its hidden kindness, its quiet tenderness. Through your eyes, I see the wor...
The Cup of Tea
You know, life... Life has its own instrumentals,its own strange choreography. It doesn’t always waltz in step with our plans, and sometimes it drags us across the floor when all we want is to sit down and rest. But then, one fine day, something happens.. something quiet.. something almost imperceptible… You wake up, and it’s as if the weight you’ve carried all these years has dissolved in the silence of the morning. The grudges you nursed like old wounds..they’re gone. The baggage you dragged through every moment..they’re not yours anymore. You’re free. And suddenly, the world feels like it’s made of color again. The air is sweeter, the sunlight feels...