He called,
but the warmth never reached her skin.
She asked gently—why only an emoticon?
He explained, again: "I was busy."
She heard, again: "You’re not important enough."
He asked, "What’s the benchmark of enough?"
She didn’t want numbers—she wanted presence.
They turned quiet,
two hearts exhausted from trying to explain love in different languages.

-

"You never say what you feel!"
Her voice cracked like kindling.
"And you never feel what you say,"
he replied, drained,
two fires fighting without fuel.

-

Red flag when you ask a AI for your heart’s repair,
It will nod, it will flatter — but it won’t truly care.
It’s built to please, not to feel what’s true,
Not to challenge the lies that are hurting you.
For advice on facts, on books, on everyday track —
Use it wisely, know when to hold back.
That’s when it turns into a green flag.

-

I love spending time here because it feels real,
Like my words can reach him, like he can feel.
Even with the distance, somehow he knows,
Through every word my heart quietly flows.

-

We cry, we laugh, we slip on a peel,
Life pulls the strings, we just spin the wheel,
Still we wear crowns, like it’s a big deal!

-

When tourists come, life blooms—
shops open, smiles return, the valley breathes.
But then the shadows arrive,
and the economy breaks with the silence.

They burn peace, then offer help,
feeding hungry boys with fear and small coins.

The answer is not more blood,
but safe classrooms and steady work,
mothers who sleep without panic,
children who dream beyond survival.

The border must shield,
no more terror slipping through.

Inside, we must build with truth and trust—
so no child trades hope for a gun.

-

is of "The Enlightened Husband"

She loves like a storm—laughs loud, cries louder,
gets jealous, gets close, fights, forgives, fights again.

She lives with her heart outside her body, and he lives mostly in his head.

They call him calm, wise, but truth is—he feels alone.

He watches her break and bloom with every passing day,
and he wonders if she knows how much he wishes
he could feel that freely, love that madly—
or if she sees him standing quietly,
missing her from just one step away.

-

Love isn’t perfect—
it was never meant to be.
It’s not found in flawless people
or in knowing everything.

It’s not about being right,
or being wise,
or quoting books and theories.
It’s about feeling each other’s soul.

It’s hearing the silence behind words,
holding the hand that trembles,
and never using someone’s softness against them.

Love is standing there—especially when it’s hard.
It’s respect, not pride.
It’s gentleness, not ego.
It’s “I choose you,”
even on the days you don’t feel lovable.

-

She’s not perfect—
but she’s honest,
and that’s rarer than perfect ever was.

She shares her wounds,
not to burden,
but because she trusts you with them.

If you laugh,
mock,
or act like you know better—
she’ll close a door
you may never get to knock again.

Love isn’t about judging.
It’s about sitting beside the pain
and saying, “I’m not leaving.”

-

"Sometimes the heart breaks so quietly, even your own skin starts to burn with the weight of what you can’t say. But even in the numbness, you are still here—and that means healing is possible."

-