Raw Confide

It sounds stupid… but it’s real. How do you miss someone whose arms you’ve never felt? Someone you’ve never kissed, never held, never touched? But connection doesn’t need physical proof. Sometimes it’s the way they talk. The way their voice softens when they say your name. The way they randomly check up on you like it’s instinct, not obligation. The way their presence — even online — feels like comfort. I miss the idea of them. The version of them that exists in my head. The version I built from late-night conversations, stolen glances, and imagined moments. I miss what could have happened. I miss the hug that never came, the kiss that never happened, the intimacy that never grew. It’s strange how someone can occupy so much space in your mind with zero physical memories to hold onto. But emotions don’t need permission. They attach. They build. They crave. And me? I’m here missing someone my body has never touched but my heart already recognizes.

Maybe that’s my problem — I love slowly, deeply, intentionally. I want kisses that take their time, conversations that unfold layer by layer, love that is patient and quiet and steady. But life… Life throws me people who rush everything except commitment. People who want my body fast but my heart never. People who promise forever on Monday but disappear by Thursday. I want slow love — the kind that lingers, the kind you sink into, the kind that makes your chest warm. But heartbreak keeps coming fast — quick exits, sudden endings, ghosted messages, silence where affection used to be. It makes me wonder if it’s my fault. If slow lovers aren’t built for this generation. If patience is a weakness now. If wanting depth is asking for pain. But still… some part of me refuses to change. I still want slow kisses. Slow arms around my waist. Slow “I miss yous” whispered into my neck. Even if the heartbreaks come fast, I’ll keep loving slow — because that’s the only way I know how.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.

I say “I’m fine” so naturally now that even I almost believe it. It rolls off my tongue like a reflex — a shield, a mask, a lie I’ve memorized. But deep down, I want someone who won’t take that answer. Someone who pauses. Someone who looks at me a little longer. Someone who hears the crack in my voice even when I’m smiling. I want someone who notices the small things: how I go quiet when I’m overwhelmed, how I change the subject when something hurts, how I laugh too quickly when I’m uncomfortable. I want someone who says, “No, tell me the truth.” Not because they’re nosy but because they care enough to look beneath the surface. I want a person who holds my chin and says, “You don’t have to be strong with me.” Maybe it’s unrealistic. Maybe it’s too much to expect. But I’ve spent so long being the strong one that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be understood without explaining. I want someone who sees me — not the version I perform, but the version I hide.

I don’t mean destruction. I don’t mean hurting people. I mean the kind of chaos that shakes life out of boredom. The kind that makes you text someone you shouldn’t. The kind that makes you flirt back knowing it’s dangerous. The kind that makes you want to feel something — even if it’s messy. Sometimes life becomes too quiet. Too predictable. Too… behaved. And a part of me wants to break the silence. To do something reckless, to feel a rush, to remind myself I’m not trapped in routine. It’s not healthy. I know. But some days I crave intensity — something that wakes my heart up. Chaos in the form of temptation, tension, thrill. The kind of chaos that makes your pulse quicken. The kind that you think about later and smile at. The kind that reminds you you’re still human. I don’t always act on it. But the craving? It’s there. Quiet but hungry. Waiting for a spark to ignite it.

It was wrong. But it felt right — painfully right. We weren’t supposed to be that close. We weren’t supposed to let the tension build. We weren’t supposed to stare at each other for too long. But chemistry doesn’t care about rules. When it happened, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t cautious. It was raw — the kind of kiss that steals your breath and breaks your logic. I knew I shouldn’t. They knew it too. But in that moment, the world wasn’t a list of consequences. It was just two people who wanted each other… finally collapsing into truth. I should regret it. Morally, logically, I should. But I don’t. Not even for a second. Because that kiss reminded me what it feels like to be wanted, to be looked at with fire, to be touched like I mattered. It complicated things. It messed up boundaries. It changed everything. But regret? No. Some moments are worth the chaos.

Everyone thinks I’m over it. They think because I stopped talking, I stopped feeling. But silence is not healing — sometimes it’s surrender. I didn’t move on. I just got tired. Tired of explaining the same pain to people who didn’t understand it. Tired of pretending their absence didn’t sting. Tired of convincing myself the memories didn’t matter. Tired of holding onto someone who wasn’t holding onto me. So I stopped complaining. Stopped asking why. Stopped waiting for apologies I know will never come. Stopped hoping they’d suddenly remember how to love me right. But every night, when it’s quiet, my heart still whispers their name. My mind still replays old moments like unsent drafts. There are still songs I skip because they sound like them. There are still places I avoid because they smell like them. Moving on is loud — it has effort, intention, decisions. But me? I didn’t move. I just shut up. People think strength is not making noise. But sometimes silence is just heartbreak wearin...

People think I’m clingy. I’m not. I’m just wired differently. I fall for consistency — not grand gestures. Talk to me daily. Listen to me. Notice the small things. Remember details I didn’t even know I mentioned. Give me your time, not your excuses. I don’t need expensive gifts. I don’t even need romantic lines. Just attention — real, engaged, intentional attention. The kind where someone texts first. The kind where someone checks in without being asked. The kind where they don’t disappear for hours and come back like nothing happened. The kind where you don’t have to guess where you stand. Attention is intimacy. Attention is effort. Attention is love in its simplest form. Some people want space. Some people want independence. I want presence. I want energy. I want someone who chooses me loudly, consistently, repeatedly. And the scary part? When someone gives me that kind of attention… I fall hard. Because that’s the language my heart understands.

It started small. They called me “sweetheart” one day and my chest warmed like it meant something special. Like it was ours. Like the word belonged to only me. But then I heard them use it on someone else. And then another person. And suddenly “sweetheart” didn’t feel like a pet name — it felt like a greeting. I tried to laugh it off, pretend it didn’t bother me, pretend the jealousy wasn’t eating at my pride. But it did. Because I didn’t fall for their words — I fell for the way they made me feel when they said them. There’s something cruel about charming people. Not intentionally cruel, but unknowingly lethal. They spread warmth so easily that everyone thinks they’re special… until they realize the warmth was never exclusive. So now I’m stuck, liking someone who doesn’t even know their smallest gesture can confuse my heart. Someone whose softness isn’t personal. Someone who makes me feel chosen… when I’m not. And yet, when they call me “sweetheart,” I still melt a little. Even though...

Every night when the world goes silent, I scroll back to conversations I should’ve deleted. Chats filled with “good mornings,” inside jokes, unnecessary emojis, long paragraphs, and small moments that used to mean everything. I study every message like a detective searching for a clue. Was it the dry reply? Was it the day they stopped using pet names? Was it when I stopped replying fast? Or was the end already written long before I noticed the shift? It’s painful — how screenshots become memories, and memories become wounds. But the worst part is how familiar it feels. How comforting it is to read something that used to make me smile. A digital ghost of a connection that once felt real. Sometimes I laugh reading how we used to talk. Sometimes I cry. And sometimes I stare at the screen wondering if they read our old chats too… or if I’m the only one holding on. People say "move on." But they don’t understand how chats hold timelines, feelings, and versions of us we’ll never ge...

It happened in a crowded place — a small brush, a soft hold, barely a second long. A stranger’s hand slipped against my waist as they tried to pass. They apologized. I nodded. But my body… reacted. Not in a reckless way. Not in a fantasy way. Just… awakened. It was the kind of touch that reminds you you’re human. That you’ve been starved of gentle contact without realizing it. That sometimes your skin misses affection even when your mind is busy pretending you're fine. I don’t know why my heart jumped. I don’t know why the warmth stayed on my body long after the stranger disappeared. I don’t know why I kept replaying it — the closeness, the unexpected intimacy, the quiet jolt of electricity that shouldn’t have meant anything. Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s the lack of tenderness in my life lately. Maybe it’s the fact that touch, even accidental, can wake emotions you didn’t know were sleeping. It’s silly. It’s meaningless. But I still remember the exact spot their fingers grazed...

They were everything I wanted — and that was the problem. They looked at me with a softness I wasn’t used to. They listened with attention that felt too pure. They liked me without pressure, without games, without trying to impress me. And for the first time in a long time… I felt seen. It terrified me. Because people like that have power. Not the toxic kind. The vulnerable kind. The kind that can break you without trying. The kind you fall for without permission. So I ran. I told them I wasn’t ready. I told them I wanted to focus on myself. I told them half-truths wrapped in excuses. They nodded, smiled sadly, and said they understood. But they didn’t understand that pushing them away hurt me too. It’s crazy how we reject the things we crave the most. It’s crazy how fear disguises itself as logic. And now, every time I meet someone new, I compare them to the person I walked away from. The one who could’ve ruined me with love. The one I’m still thinking about.

It’s pathetic, I know. Months have passed, life has moved on, yet I still find myself typing their name into search bars like a habit I can’t break. I don’t want them back — at least, that’s what I tell myself. But I want to know. I want to see. Are they smiling more? Laughing louder? Dressing better? Loving someone else? Every time I see them posting something fun, it stings — but I still scroll. Every time I notice a new person consistently liking their posts, my stomach drops — but I still watch. There’s a pain that comes from not being missed, a quiet ache that settles in the chest and pretends it’s just curiosity. But it’s not curiosity. It’s longing. It’s ego. It’s heartbreak that hasn’t finished its job. Sometimes I imagine them checking my page too. Sometimes I pretend we’re both watching each other silently, trying to move on but failing. But deep down, I know the truth: I’m the only one stuck.

I’ve mastered the art of acting unbothered. I laugh loud, post things that look like I’m glowing, talk like nothing gets to me. My friends even think I’m the strongest one in the group. But all it takes is them. Their name lighting up my phone can flip my entire chest upside down — either with excitement or pure, sick anxiety. If they reply too dry, my mood drops. If they don’t reply at all, my mind turns into chaos. If they say the wrong thing, I lose appetite. If they say the right thing, I feel stupid for how good it makes me feel. I hate it. I hate giving someone that power without their permission. I hate how I try to act detached while my heart is busy studying every punctuation mark in their messages. It’s embarrassing, honestly. Some days I mute them because I want peace. Other days I stare at my phone because I want anything from them — even a “hmm.” It’s toxic. It’s childish. But the truth is simple: I care too much. And pretending I don’t is exhausting. ---

I didn’t plan to fall for them. It wasn’t supposed to be emotional — just moments, touches, breathless nights that felt harmless until I started waiting for their messages like oxygen. They always came at night. Always when the world had gone quiet and my guard was soft. Their knock was the kind that made my heart sprint and my mind forget every warning I ever gave myself. They held me like they meant something. They kissed me like they were learning me. They stayed long enough for my heart to get confused… but left quickly enough to remind me they never promised anything. The day I realized I felt more, it scared me. It was the morning I watched them get dressed in silence, scrolling through their phone, smiling at someone who wasn’t me. I felt it in my chest — the sting, the stupidity, the truth. I wasn’t their person. I was their convenience. Now when they touch me, my body remembers the chemistry… but my heart remembers the disrespect. I don’t know how to look at them without wanti...

I’m tired of acting like I don’t care about love. The truth is I want it — deeply. I want someone to choose me, to understand me, to see me. But I’m terrified. Because I’ve loved before, and it ended painfully. I’ve trusted before, and it backfired. I’ve opened up before, and it was used against me. Now every time someone gets too close, my instinct is to pull away. Not because they’re bad — but because I’m scared the story will end the same way. I’m trying to heal. Trying to believe that love can be soft and safe. Trying to convince myself that I deserve something real. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to try again. But for now, my heart is still learning how to trust.

This one is complicated. Very complicated. I’ve known my friend for years, and their sibling has always just been… there. Someone I greeted politely, someone I never really paid attention to. But recently, something changed. Maybe they grew into themselves. Maybe I started seeing them differently. Maybe it’s both. Now every time we’re in the same space, my chest does one small unnecessary movement. They smile at me, and I feel warm. They joke with me, and I can’t stop thinking about it later. The problem is… My friend would never approve. They’re extremely protective, almost dramatic about it. So here I am, hiding feelings I never asked for. Trying not to stare too long. Trying not to get too comfortable. Trying not to want someone I shouldn’t want. But feelings have minds of their own.

It’s almost funny how predictable it is. Hours of silence all day, and then suddenly at 10 p.m., they appear with: “You awake?” Why is it always at night? Why not during the day? Why not when the sun is out and everything feels open and honest? At night, conversations feel deeper. Softer. More vulnerable. And they take advantage of that. They tell me sweet things they won’t repeat in daylight. They open up just enough to keep me hooked, but never enough to make things clear. Part of me thinks they only talk to me at night because that’s when they’re lonely. Not because they truly want me. Still… I keep answering. Because those nighttime chats feel like the closest thing we have to something real.

It started small — harmless favors, little requests, tiny sacrifices. But now I’m realizing a painful pattern: they only come to me when they need something. Money. Time. Emotional support. A place to vent. But when I need something? They disappear. Suddenly they’re “busy.” Suddenly they’re “not in the mood.” Suddenly I’m asking for too much. I feel drained. Unappreciated. Invisible. I keep wondering if they actually care about me, or if I’m just a convenient source of comfort when their real priorities fail them. I want to believe the best in people. I really do. But my heart feels like it’s being taken advantage of… and deep down, I think I already know the truth.

It’s weird. I don’t like them — not romantically. But the way they give me attention… it’s messing with my mind. They compliment me constantly. They check on me more than the person I actually want. They are consistent, sweet, and available. And it’s getting harder to ignore. Sometimes I catch myself enjoying the attention, even though I know it’s not coming from the person I truly want. It feels good to be seen, wanted, considered. But then I feel guilty — because I don’t want to mislead them. I don’t want to settle just because someone else is treating me nicely. It’s confusing. And a part of me wonders if maybe I’m starting to like them… or if I just like the way they make me feel.

I told them I didn’t care. I told them I wasn’t interested. I told them it was all just vibes. But every word was a lie I’m now choking on. I was scared — scared of being vulnerable, scared of being rejected, scared of wanting more than they wanted to give. So instead of telling the truth, I pretended I was okay with casual conversations and half-hearted attention. But the truth? I wanted them deeply. And I pushed them away with my own lies. Now they’ve moved on. They talk to someone else the way they used to talk to me. And I’m here, wishing I had been brave enough to just say: “I like you.” I sabotaged my own happiness. And that’s a confession I’ll carry for a long time.

Every day I wake up and put on a mask — the strong one, the funny one, the one who never gets affected by anything. People think I’m okay because I act like I’m okay. But inside? It’s messy. I’m tired. I’m overwhelmed. I’m pretending. I smile so people won’t start questioning me. I joke so no one notices the heaviness in my voice. I say “I’m good” even when I feel like I’m falling apart from the inside. I don’t want to burden anyone with my problems. Everyone has their own struggles. But sometimes I wish someone would notice without me saying anything. Just a simple “Are you really okay?” might break me in the best way. I’m not fine. But maybe one day I will be.

I didn’t expect the age difference to matter this much. People say love is love, but society has a way of making you second-guess everything. They’re younger — full of energy, full of life, seeing the world in a way that makes me feel alive again. Or they’re older — wiser, calmer, more stable in ways I’ve been craving for years. But people talk. Society talks. Even my mind talks. “Will they fit into my world?” “Will they take me seriously?” “Will people judge us?” Still, when we talk, it feels natural. Effortless. Like age is just numbers and connection is the real heartbeat. I like them. Maybe too much. But I’m scared the world won’t understand.

I don’t even know what to think anymore. One moment she’s sending me playful messages, teasing me, calling me sweet names. The next moment she’s posting her boyfriend with heart emojis. It’s confusing. And honestly? Dangerous. When we talk, there’s this spark — like she’s trying to say something without saying it. She laughs too hard at my jokes. She compliments me in ways that sound a little too personal. She tells me things she says she “can’t tell her boyfriend.” But she’s taken. And I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt. Still… A part of me wonders what it would feel like if she chose me instead. But another part knows this is a fire I shouldn’t go near — unless I want to get burned.

I wish he would just pick a side. One minute he’s telling me I’m beautiful, special, different from everyone else. The next minute he’s reminding me he’s “not ready for anything serious.” It makes no sense. Why compliment me like that? Why hold my hands sometimes? Why act protective? Why make me feel like I matter… just to pull away the moment I get closer? He gives me emotional whiplash. And the worst part is that I keep accepting it. I keep hoping his mixed signals will sort themselves out. But deep down, I know something: If a man truly wants you, confusion will not be part of the story. Still… I can’t deny the flutter I feel every time he calls me beautiful. Even though I know it might never become what I want.

It’s embarrassing, but it’s true. Every night before I sleep, I scroll through our old conversations. Not the recent ones — the old ones. The ones when we were still close, still excited to talk to each other, still sending paragraphs instead of one-word replies. I read the jokes we made. The plans we never carried out. The compliments, the late-night confessions, the “don’t sleep yet” messages. It’s like visiting a version of myself who was hopeful and soft, someone who believed you felt the same way. Sometimes I laugh at how silly we were. Sometimes I cry because I miss what we used to be. I know it’s not healthy, but those chats are the only proof that we were once something — even if it was undefined. It reminds me that I wasn’t imagining everything. It was real. Maybe not forever… but real enough to leave a mark.

It sounds silly when I say it out loud — how do you miss someone who was never officially yours? But I miss them. I miss the way they understood my jokes instantly, the way they made normal conversations feel meaningful. There was chemistry. There was tension. There was everything… except timing. We were almost something. Almost close. Almost perfect. But life got in the way. Maybe fear too. Now we don’t talk like before. Just occasional replies, small interactions that feel like shadows of what we used to be. And somehow, that hurts more than a breakup. Because how do you move on from someone you never had? How do you forget a connection that was real even if the relationship never happened? Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if one of us had spoken up earlier. Maybe we could’ve been something beautiful. Or maybe it would’ve fallen apart anyway. But I miss them. Heavily. Silently.

I don’t know when it changed — maybe gradually, maybe all at once. But one day I woke up and realized I was in a relationship where I felt completely alone. He used to be attentive. He used to ask how my day was, send random “I miss you” messages, make me feel wanted. But now? I feel like a background app he only opens when he’s bored. When I talk, he nods without listening. When I call, he’s “busy.” When I send sweet messages, he responds with “okay.” I’m trying not to complain too much because I don’t want to sound clingy, but it hurts. I’m a human being, not a placeholder. What scares me most is how normal the silence is becoming. I used to fight for his attention, but now I’m learning how to live without it. And that’s the part I don’t think he notices — that I’m slowly drifting away, not because I want to, but because I’m tired of begging for the bare minimum.

I never expected this. I’m not the kind of person who juggles multiple people. But somehow, here I am — torn between two connections that feel different but equally real. Person A is safe. Consistent. Kind. They check on me, they remember everything I say, they make me feel grounded. When I talk to them, I feel like I’m home. Person B is excitement. Unpredictable. Someone who challenges me and makes me laugh without trying. When we talk, I feel alive in a different way — like electricity under my skin. I’m not dating either of them, but the guilt is eating me slowly. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to lead anyone on. But my heart is confused, split in two directions with no clear answer. Sometimes I think maybe it’s not about choosing between them but choosing myself and stepping back completely. But then one of them texts me, says something sweet or thoughtful, and suddenly I’m back in the emotional maze again. I don’t know how to navigate this without breaking something… or...

I don’t even know how it happened. It wasn’t planned — it wasn’t supposed to happen at all. She was just someone I saw occasionally, someone who shouldn’t matter this much. A friend’s friend. Someone I wasn’t supposed to notice. Someone off-limits. But the more we talked, the more I realized she had this quiet depth to her. She listens with intention. She laughs softly, like she’s trying not to draw attention. And whenever she looks at me, really looks at me, I feel something I’m not supposed to feel. It’s wrong. I know it. That’s why I’ve been fighting it. I keep telling myself it’s just admiration. Just temporary. Just loneliness. But the truth is simple: I care about her. Too much. There’s tension every time we’re in the same room. We both feel it — the heavy pause before one of us speaks, the way our eyes linger too long. And yet we pretend nothing is happening, because acknowledging it might ruin everything around us. She’s not mine to want. But my heart didn’t get the memo.

It’s funny how life works. When I wanted him, he wasn’t ready. When I cried over him, he didn’t notice. When I finally healed and started building something new with someone else, that’s when he suddenly realized what he lost. He came back with long messages — paragraphs about how he was confused, how he wasn’t emotionally mature back then, how he now understands what I meant to him. He apologized for everything: the silence, the excuses, the way he made me feel like I wasn’t enough. And a tiny part of me felt seen. But the bigger part of me felt tired. The problem is… my heart isn’t as free as it used to be. Someone else has been treating me with sincerity, showing up without drama, giving me the peace I prayed for. But then my ex walked back into my life with memories I’m still not completely over. A familiar voice. A familiar comfort. Now I’m torn. Do I choose the past that broke me but understands me deeply? Or the present that doesn’t come with scars?

I always thought our friendship was safe — stable, uncomplicated. We’ve known each other for years, so long that our families practically see us as siblings. But everything changed the day I overheard him talking to someone else. He didn’t know I was coming back to get my phone. He didn’t know I heard the words: “Bro, I can’t even date anyone else. I like her too much.” At first I froze. Then I felt something shift in my chest — something I wasn’t prepared for. I always assumed we were just close. I never considered anything deeper. But suddenly, every moment between us took a new meaning: the way he always walks me home, how he notices when I’m quiet, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. Since that day, I’ve become hyper-aware of everything. When he laughs. When he touches my shoulder. When he says, “You know I got you.” I don’t know what scares me more — the idea that he likes me, or the possibility that I might like him back. Because if we try something an...

It’s confusing, honestly. Every night, almost like clockwork, his message pops up: “You awake?” Even if I wasn’t, I end up being awake until 2 a.m. talking to him about everything — work, life, childhood memories, random nonsense. He tells me goodnight with voice notes that sound too warm, too personal for someone who claims he’s “not ready for anything serious.” He compliments me. He flirts lightly. He tells me I’m beautiful in “a calm kind of way.” But in the daytime, he’s different. He can go hours without responding. Days even. Sometimes I ask myself if I’m just a nighttime companion — someone he talks to when the world is quiet and he feels lonely. The worst part? When he texts, my heart still reacts like I’ve been waiting all day. Because the truth is, I like him. More than I should. And he knows it. I think that’s why he keeps coming back at night — for the comfort, the softness, the attention. But we’re not dating. We’re not anything. We’re just two people pretending not to car...

Sometimes I think about him and I feel a sting of regret so sharp it almost feels physical. He wasn’t perfect, but he was kind, patient, and genuine. Back then, I thought I could do better. I thought I had time. I thought someone else would treat me the way he did, but with more excitement, more spark. I didn’t realize he was the spark. He used to text me every morning, asking if I had eaten. He remembered things I said in passing — like how I hated being ignored or how I’m always cold at night. One time, I had a terrible day, and he left everything he was doing just to keep me company over the phone. But I kept him at arm’s length. I didn’t want to “lead him on.” So I rejected him. Nicely. Politely. But painfully. Now he has moved on. He laughs differently. He shines differently. Someone else is receiving the kind of love I didn’t know I needed until it was gone. And every time I think about it, I wonder… If I ever tell him I want him back, will he even look at me the same way he once...

I don’t even know when it started, but somewhere between our late-night jokes and random voice notes, I fell for her. The problem? She thinks I’m just playful — the unserious guy who knows how to make her laugh but can’t possibly be interested in anything deep. Every time she talks about guys who “don’t know what they want,” I feel like she’s indirectly describing me. She doesn’t know that I pause before replying her texts because I’m trying not to sound too eager. She doesn’t know that I memorize the little things she says — like how she loves bread and tea at night or how she hates when people disappear without explanation. Sometimes she tells me about the people who are “toasting” her, and I just smile like a supportive friend. Meanwhile my chest is paining me. She once said, “If you were serious, maybe I would have even liked you.” That thing has been ringing in my head since that day. I wish she knew how much I care. I wish she knew that I’m not talking to anyone else. I wish she ...

 The night was alive with the pulse of Afrobeat rhythms spilling from the speakers, filling the air with a heat that was impossible to ignore. She swayed gently to the beat, every movement a language of its own, flowing like a melody only she could hear.His eyes never left her—how she moved, how the music wrapped around her like a lover’s touch. The bass thumped in his chest, mirroring the quickening beat of anticipation. She wasn’t just dancing; she was mesmerizing, intoxicating him more deeply than any drink ever could.With every step and every sway, she claimed the night and his senses. Her laughter mingled with the music, sweet and wild, stirring a hunger inside that no words could describe. In that moment, the music wasn’t just background noise—it was a spell, drawing them closer, promising a night where bodies and hearts would speak in rhythms deeper than sound. Under the halo of streetlights and neon, desire played out like a perfect song—raw, bold, and unforgettable.

"Raw Confide" is a place where masks come off. It's a space where the rawest, most authentic parts of ourselves are shared without fear or pretense. Imagine a person who has spent years carrying the weight of unspoken truths and hidden emotions. One day, they decide to confide their story — a story filled with struggle, pain, hope, and transformation.They write down everything they've kept inside—the moments of vulnerability, the mistakes, the lessons learned, and that fragile hope for healing. As they share their truth publicly on "Raw Confide," they realize that raw honesty can forge connections like nothing else. The confiding itself becomes a cathartic release, turning pain into strength.Through this blog, readers are invited to drop their shields and engage in the beautiful, messy dance of real human experience. Here, confiding is not just about telling secrets; it’s about trust, growth, and embracing authenticity, one story at a time. https://forms.gle...

He knew he shouldn’t want her. Not like this. Not this much. But wanting her was the only thing that made him feel anything anymore. Everything else in his life had turned into background noise—business, friends, responsibilities—just static he pretended to care about. She was the only thing that cut through the numbness. And the worst part? He wasn’t the only one she was tangled with. There was another man in her orbit. Someone softer. Someone safer. Someone she could actually build a life with. But he wasn’t that man. He never had been. His connection to her was darker—something magnetic and wrong. Something built on tension, unspoken cravings, and the kind of chemistry that had no future but refused to die. Whenever she stepped close, something inside him ignited — that deep, quiet hunger he’d kept locked away for years. He hated it. He needed it. He hated that he needed it. He told himself he didn’t care who else she loved. He told himself he wasn’t jealous. He told himself he coul...

He never really felt anything anymore. No excitement. No disappointment. Not even anger. Just… silence inside his own chest. People called it being “emotionally cold,” but to him, it was more like living behind glass. Things touched him, but nothing ever reached him. He had learned to survive that way—by staying distant, staying controlled. Until her. He didn’t understand why she shook something loose in him. Not affection. Not love. Not even care. Just… pull. Heat. An instinct, almost animal, that didn’t require emotion to activate. She talked too much. Laughed too loud. And looked at him like she wanted to read every thought he’d spent years burying. He didn’t want to be understood. He just wanted distraction—the kind that swallowed silence for a moment and made him forget the weight of nothingness inside. Every time she came close, he felt something unfamiliar, like a spark scraping against dry stone. Not warmth—just friction. Just need. Just the reminder that even a dead engine can...

It started with a glance — the kind that lingers just a little too long. There was no promise in it, no words, no grand gesture… just a quiet spark that shouldn’t have meant anything, but somehow did. He told himself it was nothing serious. Just attraction. Just curiosity. Just… something light to fill the silence of his days. But lust has a way of disguising itself — it doesn’t knock, it seeps in slowly, like smoke curling through a half-open window. Every message from her felt like a hit of adrenaline. The late-night calls. The teasing laughter. The almosts. She made him feel seen again — not for who he was, but for the parts of him that still craved to be desired. And that was enough… or so he thought. But somewhere between the conversations and the unspoken tension, the line blurred. He began to wonder — was it lust, or was he falling? He wasn’t sure anymore. Because lust burns hot but fades fast… and yet, her presence stayed in his thoughts long after the fire should’ve gone cold....

I used to think heartbreak was something you healed from. Now I see it’s something you build with. When she left, I didn’t cry the way I thought I would. The tears came quietly, like shy visitors — not loud, not dramatic. They just stayed long enough to remind me what loss feels like. Days turned into weeks, and silence began to shape itself around me. Everywhere I looked, memories stared back — soft, painful, too alive. So I did the only thing I could: I picked up the pieces, one emotion at a time, and built something out of them. Not revenge. Not regret. A reminder. A frame. Now, every time I look at that invisible frame, I see the kind of love I once gave — honest, reckless, full. And instead of breaking again, I whisper: > “You tried. You loved. You lived.” Pain didn’t end me. It became the border around who I am now. I made a frame with my broken heart — and somehow, it fits everything I’ve become.

There was a time I fought everything — time, people, silence, even love. I thought control was strength. I thought surrender was weakness. But life, in its slow and patient way, taught me that resistance makes even pleasure hurt. You hold too tight, and what you want slips through your fingers. Now, I move differently. I don’t chase. I don’t force. I flow. When desire calls, I let it hum quietly inside me first — the kind that starts soft, like water touching skin. If it deepens, I listen. If it fades, I let it go. It’s strange how freeing it feels to stop wrestling with what’s meant to be gentle. The body knows its own rhythm. The heart, its own current. Sometimes, the most intimate thing you can do is simply… allow. So when life pulls me toward something — or someone — I no longer question it too fast. I breathe, I align, I let the current show me where I belong. Not because I’m careless, but because peace is often found where we stop trying to control every wave. And that’s what I a...

They say love hits you when you least expect it. For me, it came on a quiet day, wrapped in the softness of laughter and the warmth of attention. She smiled often, spoke gently, and had this way of making ordinary moments feel noticed. I thought it was love. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. I had been lonely for a while — not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone, but the kind that lives inside even when people surround you. When she came around, she filled that space. She replied when others didn’t, she listened when others brushed me off. Her presence made the silence in my life feel smaller. So I mistook relief for affection. And comfort for connection. At first, every chat felt like a spark. Every smile felt like a promise. I started calling more, wanting to hear her voice, to hold onto that little peace she gave me. But the truth was simple — I didn’t love her; I just didn’t want to feel empty anymore. Love wasn’t what I was chasing. I was chasing attention. I ...

They said she was beautiful — the kind of beautiful that made silence stretch whenever she walked into a room. But what they never noticed was the quiet storm behind her eyes. To them, she was grace. To me, she was gravity. We met in a room filled with laughter and music, yet she spoke as if she was hiding from both. Her smile was polite, her perfume soft — like rain that falls but doesn’t touch the ground. I asked her name; she gave me one. I knew instantly it wasn’t real. Later that night, when the noise faded, she found me by the balcony — wind tugging her hair, moonlight kissing her shoulders. “Everyone sees beauty,” she said quietly, “but no one asks what it costs.” Her words lingered. So did her touch. She let me trace the edge of her jaw, the softness that shouldn’t belong to someone who looked so untouchable. And in that moment, I realized beauty wasn’t a gift — it was armor. Every perfect curve, every calm smile, every measured breath was a shield for the parts of her that had...

The night was never meant to end early, not in a place that smelled like sea salt and soft desire. The resort’s curfew bell rang at 10:00 p.m., echoing through the palm-lined walkways, warning every guest to retreat indoors. But she and I weren’t ready to stop breathing in the night yet. We had escaped dinner halfway through, her laughter spilling like champagne as she pulled me toward the beach. The moonlight stretched across her skin, the waves flirting with her ankles. She looked like temptation had finally learned how to walk. “Curfew’s in five minutes,” I whispered. She turned, eyes glowing, lips curved. “Then we better make five minutes count.” It started with silence — the kind that thickens between two people who know what’s coming but pretend not to. Her fingers brushed my wrist, slow, deliberate. I swear my pulse skipped into the rhythm of the waves. When her body leaned closer, I didn’t think of the curfew or the guards who’d soon walk the path. I thought of how her breath f...

Amara had always loved being seen. Not for her beauty — though she had that — but for the warmth that came with being noticed. The messages that came in the morning, the random calls, the “I miss you” texts from people who barely knew her. It made her feel alive. Wanted. Important. She told herself it was love. After all, love was supposed to make you feel wanted, right? But it never lasted. The same people who showered her with words faded when she stopped replying fast. The same hands that reached out stopped when she didn’t give enough energy back. She began to see a pattern — every burst of attention felt like sunlight, but when it was gone, it left her cold again. One evening, sitting by her window, she realized the truth: She wasn’t looking for love — she was craving attention. Love was patient, but attention was greedy. Love stayed when you were quiet, but attention needed you to perform. The next time someone said, “You’ve been quiet lately,” she smiled and replied, “I’ve just ...