February has always been my month. The month I was born, the month that feels a little peculiar, a little mysterious—like it carries a piece of me no one else can see. Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt… a bit strange. But ask me if I like it, and I’d say it’s more than liking. It’s a relationship, sometimes a love affair, sometimes a quiet companionship. Some days, I wake up and feel untouchable. I’m okay with who I am. I don’t care what the world thinks. Other days, I’m curled up in bed, sad songs on repeat, wondering why life happens the way it does. This year, I noticed myself drifting away, isolating from people I care about. I felt like a burden, like being close might do more harm than good. I thought I could be an anchor for the people I love during storms, but sometimes I realized I was just extra weight in the way. So now, I cheer from afar. I watch, I celebrate, I hold my love quietly. I survive my battles alone. I’ve learned to sit with my wounds, quiet and unseen, and still be grateful. I’ve realized that even when no one notices the struggles, surviving them is a kind of quiet triumph.
This year, apart from the isolation, I’ve been working on rebuilding my relationship with faith. It’s not perfect, but the process is sacred. I remind myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is peace of mind. Somewhere along the way, in returning to the basics, I found a clarity I didn’t know I was seeking—a calm in the chaos, a reminder that even when life punishes you and no one is there to save you, you can still find your way back to yourself. But beneath all that, I can’t help noticing the one thing I’ve been hoping for… the call I’ve been waiting for. Four months have passed, and it hasn’t come. When it did, it wasn’t from the right person. You know that moment in Mean Girls when Amanda Seyfried says her boobs can tell when it’s raining? I totally understood her. Not my boobs, though—my gut has been doing all the talking, whispering, “Don’t take the chance. It’ll feel like déjà vu all over again.” So, I’ve practiced patience. I’ve focused on the little things I can achieve, and somehow, those small victories feel satisfying. I’ve always been the type to make plans with friends only to have them canceled for the fourth time in a row. This year, I stopped waiting. I went alone. And to my surprise, I actually enjoyed it.
So I started doing things alone, with nothing but my own company — and surprisingly, it wasn’t as heavy as I imagined. There was a time when weekends meant café hopping with my sister, cups of coffee we were probably too young to be drinking, and conversations that stretched longer than the afternoon. I didn’t go for the caffeine; I went for her. For the laughter. For the comfort of being understood without explaining myself. As I grew older, those rituals quietly faded into the background, like songs you stop hearing until one day you realize you miss them. So I began retracing my steps, returning to the things that once felt like home: reading for hours without guilt, eating slowly and savoring it, editing photos just to freeze a moment in time. Small acts, but they stitched something back together inside me. And that’s how I ended up here — documenting my life. I’ve always wondered how my story will unfold. If my life were a book, would it be interesting? What would the plot twists look like? Would readers root for me, or shake their heads at my decisions? I hope, at the very least, it’s a story I’ll enjoy reading myself.
Even if the universe decides the ending isn’t perfect, I want to be able to say I kept turning the pages. I kept going. Because I’ve survived worse chapters on my own, and somehow, I’m still here — curious about what comes next.
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