Tonight I Am Empty

On love, silence, and the things that don’t return

Tonight I am sad.

More than sad — I am empty.

There is a hollow pain sitting inside me.
Not sharp.
Not loud.
Not urgent.

Just there.

Like something that has been building slowly.
Like an echo.
Like an unavoidable presence
that must sit there.

It doesn’t take over everything.

But it softens everything.

It makes my smile fade away.
It makes joy feel fragile.
And it makes me stare at the wall.

Thinking nothing.
Feeling everything.

Slowly disappearing.

I am sitting in my bed.

A tea next to me.
A tea I don’t even want.

There is so much silence.

Both my flatmates are out.
The house feels different without them.

I have been in bed for most of the day.
Writing and writing for my thesis.
Being comfortable.

And still — the sadness was there.

Earlier, I had dinner.

Indian food.
Cooked for me.

My flatmate made it.
He has become a really dear friend.

We sat in the kitchen.
Talking.
Last night we were laughing at a stand-up comedy show.
Candle light.
Music.
Warmth.

It feels like home... more than ever.

He made me dinner.
Then asked me if I was okay.

And when I didn’t answer properly,
he just… hugged me.

A warm hug.
The kind that doesn’t ask questions.

Now he is out.

And I am still here.

In the same position.
In the same thoughts.

Nothing really changed.

I think my tea got cold.

I didn’t want it anyway.

I am not even sure what I am feeling anymore.

I don’t know if I want it to pass.
Or if I want to stay here.

To dissolve into the bed.
To become grey like my bedsheets.
To disappear into the objects around me.

A room that held so many stories.
So many chapters.
So many versions of me.

I wanted to write about love.

Amore.

But haven’t we written enough about love already?

I am tired of thinking about it.

And still..
it is the only thing that comes.

So I write.

To be honest, I don’t know what will come out of this.

I never do.

I have always written.

Since I was a child — diaries, notebooks, scattered thoughts.
I published poems when I was a teenager.

They were never rhymes.

Just free writing.
Heavy, even then.

Early signs of someone who would choose philosophy over simplicity.

When I opened this blog — this one —
after a few others before,

it was a way back.

Back to writing.
Back to expression.
Back to something that always felt like home.

I love this space.

I love the moment when my thoughts and my fingers
just… start moving.

No structure.
No control.

Just a quiet dance.

I thought I would write about important things.

About ideas.
About perspectives.
About the world.

But somehow,
I ended up writing publicly what feels like a diary.

Full of moments.
Full of optimism.
Full of pieces of myself from different times.

And if I’m honest —
I don’t think I reached the depth I imagined.

Not even close.

And still… I write.

Because I enjoy it.

Because I like going back.
Reading older entries.
Seeing who I was.

Remembering how things felt.

We write so we can live life twice.

Don’t we?

But there are things I still don’t say.

Not because they are hidden.

But because they are… delicate.

There is a fear.

Not exactly of judgment.

But of being misunderstood.

Of not explaining myself enough.
Of being seen… wrong.

And yet..

people will always understand you
from where they are in life.

Not from where you are.

So maybe the fear is not logical.

But it is there.

I want to speak more.

About things that are not always comfortable.
About things that sit in the shadows.

Taboos.

I am, in many ways, a taboo person.

Not in what I say —
but in how I exist.

And I want to push that further.

To open conversations.
To stretch perspectives.
Even just a little.

Because representation matters.
And so does debate.

Ask any minority what it means to be seen.
Ask any thinker what it means to question.

It’s not easy.
It’s not gentle.

But it’s necessary.

Still, I take my time.

I move slowly.

Carefully.

With respect for myself.
For what I am ready to share.
For what I am able to express.

One thing about me is clear.

I love.

With passion.
Openly.
Deeply.
Wildly.

And tonight…

I sit alone inside my sadness.

Thinking about love again.

This thing we spend our whole lives chasing.

A blessing.
A curse.

I think about love in its pure form.

In its abstract form.

In all its forms.

But mostly — the abstract one.

Because sometimes…

it feels like I am chasing something
that doesn’t exist.

And yet

I do love.

I love so much.
And so many.

But sometimes…

it doesn’t come back.

And on nights like this…

you will find me here.