Someone is kissing me. Soft at first, almost hesitant, then deeper, more insistent, as though he is afraid I might slip away if he doesn't hold me here. A rush of adrenaline pulses through my veins, hot and electric, flooding me until I can hardly breathe.
My body trembles under his touch. I feel intoxicated, restless, ravenous... like some wild creature starved for warmth, ready to devour the heart of whoever dares to seek me out in the dark.
His lips trail from my jaw down to the curve of my neck, leaving behind a path of fire that makes my skin ache with longing. I tilt my head without thinking, offering myself to him, though my vision is blurred and swimming.
I can't make out his face. The shadows blur him into something half-real, half-imagined. He is close enough for me to feel the weight of his body above mine, yet distant, as if I am caught between waking and dreaming.
There is tenderness in the way his hand slides across my cheek, yet there is also hunger, a burning urgency that unsettles me. Each breath he exhales against my skin sears like flame, and I shiver, not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
Am I dreaming?
Or did I drink so much that I've forgotten his name, his voice, the moment we first collided? I try to remember, but the night is blurred, spilled laughter, broken fragments of music, the dizzy haze of too many glasses raised. And now this… him.
The night stretches endlessly, timeless, as if the world has narrowed down to nothing but his mouth, his touch, his warmth pressing into me. Whatever this is... dream or delirium... it has carved itself into me, a secret I will never shake free.
What we shared in the dark could never be forgotten.
-
Mother and father must be in another vacation. It's summer, and my mother doesn't have classes, so of course she must have gone with my father on one of his business trips.
They could have told me they wouldn't be home, but that was always their way, moving in and out like shadows, while I filled the silence of these houses with my own thoughts.
I sent her a quick message, letting her know I'd be staying in my own house. She would probably just reply with a heart or a brief "take care," and I wouldn't ask for more.
We have three houses: one at District A - Zone 4, the second here in District B - Zone 5, and the one I call mine, in District B - Zone 1. Each place carries its own silence, but it's my little house I long for most.
Somehow, I miss it, not just the walls and the rooms, but the feeling of stepping into a space where every corner reflects me, where my books rest like loyal companions, where the windows let in light the way I want it to.
In 2026, I was sent to a faraway village to teach high school students in a public school. A year earlier, I had been teaching at a university, clean classrooms, polished floors, students who carried their futures like polished resumes in the making. But I wanted to know why my mother, a doctor of education, always chose the path of the public school.
She used to tell me that real education happens where the struggle is hardest, where students don't arrive with silver spoons and ready-made answers. So I went, and for the first time, I understood. Their hunger for learning was raw, alive, unpolished, and it changed me.
Still, I never forgot my dream. To be a writer. The kind of writer whose words find their way into the hearts of strangers. Teaching was what my parents wanted for me, stable, respectable, secure.
Writing was what I wanted for myself, wild, unpredictable, maybe even selfish, but real. So I chose both. I left home, built a life with my own hands, found stability, and tasted independence.
But now… everyone is urging me to get married. Aunts, cousins, family friends... each conversation peppered with that question, each smile laced with expectation. As if all the roads I've walked, all the dreams I've chased, lead only to that one destination.
I tell them I am not ready. That I still have books to write, lessons to teach, and places to see. But late at night, when the house is too quiet and the walls seem to breathe around me, I wonder... am I resisting because I truly don't want it yet? Or because I am afraid that marriage will mean surrendering the pieces of myself I fought so hard to keep?
I couldn't count how many relationships I've entered or people I've crossed paths with. Faces blur together when I look back, but I remember the longest one... almost five years. We started dating when I first entered college, and he was just a year older, though in many ways, he felt much younger.
He was nonchalant, detached, as if the world could never truly touch him. Immature, stubborn, difficult. He needed me to guide him, to steady him, yet he resisted me at every turn. And I... I was no better. I pretended at maturity, wearing it like a costume that never quite fit. Still, I gave everything I could, believing that maybe love could grow out of sheer persistence.
But love cannot be forced. That was the lesson I carried away from him. I knew from the very beginning that I wasn't his choice. I had chosen him, pulled him into my orbit, not because of some great passion but out of curiosity, as if love were an experiment.
I wanted to taste it, to see what kind of magic people whispered about. Instead, I discovered betrayal. His heart had always belonged to someone else... his best friend... and no matter what I did, it was never mine to hold.
So I walked away.
It was painful, yes, but it was also necessary. I braced myself for grief, for the sharp edges of heartbreak, but what I found instead was… peace. A strange quietness. A kind of nothingness that wrapped around me like a shield. It gave me the strength to move on, step by step, until the weight of him no longer clung to me.
That was when I realized I had never truly loved him. What I loved was the idea of love itself, the way it looked in books, in films, in other people's eyes. I had been chasing an illusion, not a person. And yet, even illusions can wound. The scars remain, small but undeniable, faint reminders etched into my heart.
Because I am human, after all. And even when we walk away, even when we grow stronger, we carry the proof of where we've been.