To whoever’s taking notes on how not to love a goddess. This is a public notice, since private words never seemed to land. I wish you could have seen what I meant beneath the words. It wasn’t an accusation. It was me trying to connect, trying to be honest without it turning into something defensive. But the moment I shared how I felt, you treated it like a threat. You started explaining yourself, defending things that weren’t even the reason I felt that way, missing the part

Picture this: me, half-drunk on cheap mortal wine, sprawled across a velvet chair like a fallen queen, declaring to the ceiling beams, “I...

Because the thought that drives me half-mad is this: what if I find you every time.

So here I am, throwing a mini tantrum in prose and calling it wisdom, testing out mortal remedies as if patience will save me.

The rule is clear. Comfort destroys potential. Walking away may feel easier, but it ends the story before it matters.

You are the version of me that finally figured out how to guard her heart.

Apparently, today was the day I learned that being diagnosed with C-PTSD is less credible than a gossip column on Mount Olympus. Let us...

That every act of care, every small gesture, every moment of opening my heart, is a declaration: I know you could break me, but I believe you will not.