tipsytruths

[tipsytruths]

Deep down, you always know. Maybe not in words, not in anything you can hold up as proof, but you feel it. It sits there—quiet but certain—like a truth you don’t want to name. It lingers in the silences, in the way their presence feels just a little too distant, in the way you catch yourself justifying what shouldn’t need justification.

Hope makes you hesitate. It smudges the edges, lets you rewrite the story, smooth out the sharp corners, convince yourself that maybe you’re just overthinking. Maybe they care but don’t know how to show it. Maybe they’re just busy. Maybe they just need time. Maybe it’s just you.

But deep down, beneath all the what-ifs and second-guessing, you already know exactly where you stand with someone. It’s in the way they reach for you—or don’t. The way they make space for you—or don’t. You feel it in the pauses, in the unreturned messages, in the weight of words left unsaid.

Hope blurs the lines, but not enough to erase the truth. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you knew it long before you were ready to admit it.

[tipsytruths]

There’s something about those quiet moments—the ones where the world isn’t asking for anything, where nothing extraordinary is happening, and yet, you catch yourself staring. Watching them do something as simple as scrolling through their phone, sitting in the passenger seat, or laughing softly at their favorite show.

And it just hits you.

That unspoken feeling that blooms in your chest, soft and certain. The realization that they exist in the same space as you, moving through their day unaware of the way they make the air feel different. Warmer. Safer. Like home.

You smile, not because of anything they did, but simply because they are. Because they mean so much to you in a way that words don’t always know how to hold.

[tipsytruths]

It’s not that I don’t feel loved. I do. In the way you know how, in the way that feels natural to you. And most days, that’s enough. Most days, I tell myself that love isn’t about asking for more—it’s about accepting what’s given, about meeting each other where we are.

But some days… some days, I wish you’d love me harder. Not in grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but in the small ways that make me feel like I don’t have to ask. Like you just know. Like you see the quiet spaces in me that need filling and you reach for them before I even realize they’re empty.

I don’t want to feel ungrateful. I know you try. I know you give me what you can, and I don’t want to turn that into something that feels like a debt—like something you owe me just because I need it more. But there are moments when I wonder if love is supposed to feel like this… like a constant balancing act between being thankful for what I have and aching for what I don’t.

I don’t think either of us is wrong. You’re not wrong for the way you love me. And I’m not wrong for wanting more. But where does that leave us? How do I hold both truths at the same time—knowing you love me, and knowing that sometimes, it still doesn’t feel like enough?

[tipsytruths]

There are days when I wake up feeling invincible, like the universe itself is bending in my favor. The sun seems to shine a little brighter, the air feels lighter, and every step I take is effortless. On these days, my laughter comes easy, my dreams feel within reach, and I believe—truly believe—that I am unstoppable.

But then, there are days when the weight of the world presses down on me, folding me into myself like a crumpled page of a book no one wants to read. The air turns heavy, my chest tightens, and every movement feels like wading through an ocean of doubt. My own thoughts become my worst enemy, whispering insecurities I thought I had buried long ago.

And on those days, more than anything, I just need you to love me harder. Not with grand gestures or eloquent words, but with the quiet certainty that you are here. I need you to hold me when I cannot hold myself together, to remind me of the light even when all I see is shadow. Love me when I am silent, when I retreat into the corners of my mind, when I cannot explain why I feel the way I do. Love me with patience, with tenderness, with the steady presence that tells me I am not alone.

Because when the world feels too big or too small, when I am either soaring or sinking, it is your love that keeps me steady.

[tipsytruths]

You are everything that’s ever been my favorite thing—you are my love song, my birthday cake, the sound of ocean waves, French words, and the warmth of a blanket on a rainy afternoon. You’re the glow of city lights after the rain, ube cake, a kaleidoscope filled with glitter.

I love you, and you’ll never catch up, because I’ve gotten a head start and my heart is racing at light speed.

[tipsytruths]

Love is a strange contradiction — a paradox where emotions burn fiercely, yet the warmth never quite reaches you the way you need. Someone can love you with the depths of their soul, clinging to you with all the tenderness they know, but still fumble when it comes to the language of action. And isn't that the bittersweet tragedy of it?

They speak the right words with a voice heavy with sincerity, but their hands? Their hands forget to hold you when your world crumbles. They promise you forever but disappear when "now" is what you really need. They might believe they're giving you everything — but sometimes, everything falls short when it's not what you asked for. Love that feels infinite in their heart can sometimes be like holding smoke — there, but never solid enough to truly grasp.

It’s not always out of cruelty or indifference. Sometimes it’s ignorance. Sometimes fear. Sometimes the simple inability to translate feeling into doing. But it doesn't soften the ache. Love that’s all heart but no hands leaves you lonely in the most confusing way — loved yet not held, seen but never truly understood.

And maybe that’s the cruelest irony: they love you, just not in the way that makes you feel whole. And sometimes, that’s not enough.

[tipsytruths]

I wonder if it’s better to feel nothing at all — to exist in that numb, weightless space where nothing touches you and nothing breaks you. Maybe it’s safer there, where the silence doesn’t echo and your chest isn’t heavy with hopes you never asked for. But then I think about how much I feel everything all at once. Like waves crashing without mercy, every emotion demanding to be heard, demanding to hurt. It’s exhausting, honestly. And yet, even in the mess of it, isn’t that where life is? Where it’s raw and chaotic and wild enough to remind you that you’re alive? Or maybe I’m just romanticizing the suffering because I don’t know what peace looks like.

[tipsytruths]

Distance gives us a reason to love harder because it forces you to lean into everything that isn’t physical — the words, the effort, the trust. It’s making sure your good morning texts actually feel like a hug when you can’t be there to give one. It’s finding comfort in the sound of their laugh through calls that aren’t glitchy but still never long enough, and learning to read the pauses in between because even silence has its own kind of intimacy.

Loving harder means not letting the miles win. You fight for every shared moment, no matter how small, because those moments become everything. You start appreciating things you used to take for granted, like the way their voice softens when they’re tired or how a single photo of their day can make yours better.

It’s not easy. There are days when the distance feels like too much, when longing weighs heavy. But then you remember why you’re doing this — because they’re worth it. And when you finally see them again, you know all of it, every ache and every late-night message, was proof of just how much love can stretch without breaking.

[tipsytruths]

I’m happy I met you. Life doesn’t exactly hand out moments like this on a whim. You know, the kind where someone just clicks into your orbit without you needing to adjust your stride. It’s rare and I’m not blind to that. I see it. I feel it. And honestly? I’m not sure what I did to deserve it.

So now, do me a favor—stay. Don’t just linger at the edge of my life like a passing season. Stay when it’s easy, sure, but especially when it’s not. Stay through the messy parts, the silences that stretch too long, the days when I overthink myself into a corner. Stay when the sparkle of newness fades, when comfort takes over in its quiet, steady way.

Because I’m not asking for a perfect forever. Just a promise that when the dust settles, you’ll still be here.

[tipsytruths]

It’s hard to ignore how small everything feels, how far away we seem, even when we’re just a call away. It’s like reaching out your hand and realizing the space between is wider than it should be. You’re there, but somehow it doesn’t feel close enough. The silence between us feels heavier than the words we’ve spoken, and it leaves me wondering if I’m the one building that distance, or if it’s just the way things are tonight.

I don’t know how to close the gap, or if I even need to. I tell myself it’s just a moment, that tomorrow it’ll all make sense again. But in this quiet space, I feel small, unsure, like my need for comfort might be asking too much. And yet, even with all that doubt, I still find myself wishing—just for a moment—that you’d notice the weight I’m carrying and pull me closer, even when I can’t ask for it.

[tipsytruths]

I miss you.

It’s the kind of missing that sneaks into quiet moments—when I’m sipping my morning coffee and wishing my hand was wrapped around yours instead of the mug. It’s too much when I hear your voice and see your face through a screen, knowing I won’t feel your warmth around me for another month or two. Too often when I catch myself staring at photos, as if they could bridge the gap between here and there. And somehow, it’s more every day, like longing knows no limits.

This kind of missing doesn’t fade; it grows. It’s in the countdown to when I’ll see you next, in the way I replay the last goodbye as if holding on to it will bring you closer. But in a way, it’s beautiful too—because it means I have something worth missing, something worth holding on to until the day we’re together once again.

[tipsytruths]

Life has this weird way of throwing you into the deep end, doesn’t it? Some seasons feel so heavy, like you’re stuck in a fog, just trying to get through the day. You stop caring about yourself, about anything, really. Everything feels like too much, and even the smallest things, like getting out of bed or looking in the mirror, hit harder than they should.

But then, somehow, things start to shift. Slowly at first, like a crack of light through a closed door. You catch yourself smiling again, feeling a little lighter, daring to believe that maybe things can get better. And then, they do. New opportunities, new connections, new reasons to keep going—life starts to feel like it’s finally rooting for you instead of against you.

It’s not about pretending the bad stuff didn’t happen. It’s part of the story, part of what makes you stronger, even if you hated every second of it. But when you get a taste of that fresh start, it’s like you remember what hope feels like. And you can’t help but look ahead, thinking, “Yeah, maybe this next chapter is going to be even better.”

[tipsytruths]

There’s a quiet sadness that settles in when you’re so far away—not just in distance, but in the little spaces where connection usually lives. The days feel heavier somehow, like I’m moving through them in slow motion, counting down until we’re together again.

I tell myself it’s just temporary, that this distance doesn’t change anything. But still, I can’t help but wonder—Do I linger in your thoughts the way you linger in mine? Do you feel this same ache, or is it just me?

I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to hold onto this weight when what I feel for you should only bring light. But right now, it’s hard to shake. It’s love, it’s longing, and right now, it’s just… heavy.

[tipsytruths]

One day, you’ll wake up and realize you’re 40. The same room, the same bed, and the same tired conversations. The arguments will have worn grooves into your heart like footsteps on an old staircase, each one taking you further down a path you never meant to walk. And then, it might hit you. That it’s too late. Too late to turn around, too late to start over, too late to dream of something new.

You’ll think of all the years you spent holding on, clutching a love that gave nothing back. You’ll remember the times you excused it—the promises, the apologies, the brief glimpses of hope that made you believe it might be worth it. But deep down, you’ll know the truth: you were pouring yourself into a cup with a crack, and no matter how much you gave, it was never enough to fill.

Time isn’t infinite, and love doesn’t thrive where it isn’t valued. Every moment you cling to someone who doesn’t see your worth is a moment stolen from someone who might. Someone who would treasure you. Someone who wouldn’t make you question your place in their life.

My friend, don’t wait until the clock runs out. Don’t wait until regret becomes a constant companion. Find someone who values you now, someone who sees you for all you are.

The hardest part isn’t letting go; it’s trusting that what’s waiting for you will be better than what you’re leaving behind. But when you choose yourself and your worth, it always leads to something better—peace, growth, and a love that truly matches what you deserve.

[tipsytruths]

There’s a certain kind of solitude that comes with being invisible—not the loneliness of being alone, but the quiet isolation of being surrounded by people who don’t truly see you. They see the surface—the smile you offer, the laughter you share, the way you nod along in conversation. But they don’t see what lies beneath the mask, the parts you’ve hidden for so long that even you sometimes forget they exist.

I’ve learned to live with this invisibility, slipping through the cracks unnoticed, blending into the background. It’s easier this way, safer. No one asks questions, no one expects answers. They get the version of me that fits neatly into their world, the one I’ve allowed them to see. But behind those walls, there’s more. There’s a me that’s never been fully revealed, a me that exists in the quiet spaces, in the moments when the world fades away.

It’s not that I don’t want to share it—it’s that I don’t know how. How do you explain something so raw, so real, to someone who might not understand? How do you show the parts of yourself that feel too vulnerable, too complicated, without risking it all? The desire to be seen for who I truly am pulses quietly inside me, but I’m scared. Scared that no one will understand, scared that I’ll lose something precious in the process—maybe even myself.

Sometimes, the weight of this quiet ache is too much. The longing to be known, truly known, becomes louder, more insistent. But then the walls go back up, and I retreat into the shadows. It’s safer here, in the places where no one can see the mess, the truth, the parts of me I’m too scared to share.

But even shadows are lonely.

I carry my secrets with me, silent and heavy, not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to let go of them without feeling exposed. It’s easier to stay hidden, to stay comfortable in the version of myself I’ve shown the world. But every so often, the desire to break free, to let someone see the real me, becomes too strong to ignore. I wonder if there’s anyone out there who would accept me for all that I am, someone who would step into my world and understand the complexities and contradictions, without judgment.

I can’t help but hope—hope that one day, someone will look closely enough to see the truth, the real me. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll see more than what I’ve allowed them to see.

For now, I remain in the shadows, unseen and unnoticed, not because I want to be, but because I’m still figuring out how to let the real me come into the light.

[tipsytruths]

It’s funny, the way disappointment sinks in. You hold out hope, even when part of you knows you’re setting yourself up for it. But life has a way of reminding you, almost gently, that some things just aren’t meant for you — or at least, not right now. You can push, you can try to change the current, but that pull to control what’s slipping away only makes the letting go harder.

So maybe, just maybe, this is one of those things you release to whatever forces are out there, trusting that if it’s truly meant to stay, it will come back on its own. Maybe that’s what faith is — accepting that what’s meant to be will find its way back to you, in its own time, and realizing that forcing it won’t make it any more yours.

[tipsytruths]

Almost Doesn’t Feel So Bad

Morning light slips through the curtains, soft and unwelcome. It crawls across the floor, making itself comfortable, even though I haven’t asked for it. I lie still, waiting for the familiar heaviness to settle in my chest, like it always does. Some days it’s lighter, other days it hits me before I’m fully awake—memories, regrets, those tiny what-ifs that never seem to shut up.

It’s been a year now since we broke up. A whole year. You’d think that’s enough time for things to stop hurting. People say time smooths things over, but no one tells you how uneven that process can feel. One day, you're laughing with friends, almost forgetting. The next, you catch a glimpse of something—an old photo, a favorite song on the radio—and suddenly it all comes rushing back, clutching old pieces of you that are no longer mine.

It’s not that I want you back. I know we’re done. The things that could’ve been said were never said, and the things that were said are better left buried. But every now and then, I catch myself missing the me I was with you. The way I laughed without second-guessing, the way I let myself believe the nights would always stretch wide with possibilities. Now, the nights are heavier, and the mornings are... well, mornings. Just something I get through.

I sit up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, but I can’t help but smile a little, even if it’s just a half-hearted one. I’m not exactly okay, but I’m close. Closer than I thought I’d be by now. I’ve even started to put effort into my look again, choosing pieces that feel comfortable and remind me of the confidence I once had. And sometimes, I laugh without that weight in my chest reminding me I shouldn’t.

I say your name in my head to test myself. Nothing cracks. Not today. I exhale slowly, like I’ve passed some secret exam only I knew about. It feels like a small victory. Almost over you.

Almost.

And honestly, almost doesn’t feel so bad. Not anymore. Because even if it’s not the finish line, it’s forward. I’m moving, even if some days I only manage an inch at a time.

I stand up and stretch, letting the sunlight fall across my shoulders. Almost is enough for now.

And soon, it’ll be more than enough.