One o'clock in the morning.
I couldn't sleep.
I was watching a K-drama and enjoying it.
Suddenly,
I received a notification from Hevin:
"Do you hear the sounds?
I think there's a wedding coming from the west."
Surprised, I replied:
"What wedding? Whose wedding?
I don't hear anything."
She answered quickly:
"I swear I can hear drums and singing…
strange words I can't understand 😔"
Trying to calm her, I wrote:
"My dear, I don't hear a thing.
You must be tired
try to get some sleep 😘🫂"
I turned off my phone,
but my thoughts drifted into the void…
What was wrong with her?
And why did I feel,
for the first time,
that this wasn't just exhaustion
My name is Rokhash.
It means the beautiful sun, or the radiant one,
yet my life was never as warm as my name suggests.
I live with a simple family
modest… to the point of exhaustion.
My parents?
They argue over the smallest things.
A fight every couple of days,
until I grew used to their raised voices,
as if they were part of the furniture,
or a dull daily routine…
or perhaps
spices I can't tell whether they ruin life,
or merely give it a bitter flavor.
My mother…
carried a dream larger than the house,
larger than the walls that confined her.
A dream of continuing her education.
But life was harsh on her,
so she chose to hang that dream
on my shoulders instead.
I wasn't upset.
I wished to fulfill her dream,
to become something important,
someone she could one day be proud of.
What my mother doesn't know
is that I am withdrawn…
introverted.
Not like the other girls in high school.
While they go on dates,
gather together,
and laugh endlessly,
I return home,
then back to school,
in a dull routine repeated every day.
Not because I didn't try.
I tried to be social,
to have friends,
to belong…
But I failed.
Or perhaps
I simply haven't found
the place that truly resembles me
not yet.
I never believed in love.
Not because it never knocked on my door,
but because every time it did,
it entered in disguise,
wearing masks that were never its own.
It came loaded with promises,
smiling generously,
perfecting the role of the savior
only to soon reveal itself…
a liar,
fragile,
hollow.
Love, in my eyes,
is not the miracle they sing about,
but a carefully designed game,
a desire hiding behind warm words,
an unspoken agreement
of mutual deception.
I don't know the true name
people give it,
but I know for certain
that I do not trust it
and I never will.
Every time I find myself drawn to someone,
the story begins the same way it always does:
a passing conversation,
an unintended laugh,
a light attention
that quietly grows without us noticing.
Words intertwine,
meetings become complicated,
and the silence between us
grows longer than it should,
and more dangerous
than it ever ought to be.
Every time I find myself drawn to someone,
the story begins as it always does:
a casual conversation,
an unintentional laugh,
a fleeting interest
that quietly swells without us noticing.
Words intertwine,
meetings grow complicated,
and the silence between us
becomes longer than it should be,
and more dangerous
than it ever ought to be.
Then....
as if it were a rehearsed ritual
the confession slips between sentences…
once from him,
once from me.
And every time,
I already know the ending.
I see it with terrifying clarity,
as if it were written across my forehead.
For men do not fall in love as they claim.
They chase the idea,
not the person.
They pursue us until we weaken,
until we hand them our hearts in trust
and when we truly fall,
when we become more honest than we should…
they retreat.
Quietly.
Without noise.
Without explanation.
As if they were never here at all.
After the confession,
I feel no joy.
That flutter they speak of
never reaches me.
Instead,
a heavy feeling creeps in
boredom…
disgust.
As if something inside me
has suddenly broken,
as if I have lost my worth in an instant,
as if I have turned
from a whole human being
into an easily won game.
Then,
I do not scream or cry.
Instead, I do what I am good at:
I ruin everything.
I argue,
create a problem out of nothing,
disagree over trivial details,
exaggerate my reactions,
inflate words,
and turn calm into a storm.
Not out of cruelty,
nor because I am as harsh as they think,
but because a clear, honest withdrawal
requires a strength I do not have.
Because saying
"I don't want this"
is harder for me
than destroying everything.
So I leave first.
Always.
I walk away before I am abandoned,
break the bridge with my own hands,
and convince myself
that this is the only safe choice.
The strange thing is
that I don't feel sad afterward.
No tears.
No regret.
Just something
that resembles a light emptiness
an emptiness that does not hurt,
but confuses,
then fades away,
as if nothing had ever happened.
I hate attachment.
I see it as a gentle trap,
a guaranteed loss
no matter how beautifully we try to dress it up.
Everyone who grows attached
loses a part of themselves,
and I am tired
of the small losses
no one ever notices.
You may see me as sick,
or complicated,
or a woman who runs from love
because she fears it.
But you do not see
what I see.
You do not hear the voices
that taught me caution.
You do not know
how many times
I trusted
only to regret it.
Every person carries their own wound,
a wound that cannot be seen,
yet it teaches them
how to hate,
how to withdraw,
and how to survive.
And this…
is my wound
I did not choose to harden,
I chose to remain.
And in a world that takes without asking,
staying whole
is its own kind of victory