My Dear Stranger, You once asked me, softly but seriously, “Why do you like me? What do you even see? ”And you kept asking… as my answer might change. I remember I said, “I don’t know.” And I meant it. Because you’re not even my type… at least not in the way I used to think. But maybe that’s exactly why this feels different. I didn’t plan this. This feeling didn’t begin with a crush, or stolen glances, or slowly growing interest… nope... It just happened. Like a page quietly

My Dear Stranger, I grew up learning how to disappear if things start to feel overwhelming. Not because I wanted to, but because no one ever stayed long enough to really see me. No one taught me how to No mother's warmth to hold me, No father's love to protect me. There was no gentle place to land, no arms that felt like home, no voice that said, You’re safe here . Only silence, Only space, Only lessons learned too early about standing on my own without choices. I watched lov

My Dear Stranger, Tonight, I’m sitting with a question that has no clean answer. What is love anyway? People talk about love like it’s a decision, like we can pick a person the way we pick a song, or a color, or a job. But the truth feels more complicated than that. For me, Love moves like a hidden energy. An unexpected invansion. Quiet at first… then suddenly strong enough to rearrange the whole inside of you. My Dear Stranger, I keep wondering how people fall in love. What

My Dear Stranger, I used to be hopelessly romantic. Not the loud kind— not the kind that posts love like a headline. Mine was quiet. Private. Gentle. The kind that believes in small gestures: a hand reaching for yours without asking, a message that arrives at the exact moment your chest feels too heavy, a “I’m here” that doesn’t need explanation. I carried that "heart" like it was a gift. Like it was safe. Back then, I thought love was simple. not easy, but simple. If I felt

My Dear Stranger, I’m still here. That’s the simplest truth I know. I wake up. I breathe. I fix my hair and step into the day as if nothing inside me is broken. I reply when I can. I smile when I should. I say “I’m okay” because it’s easier than explaining. I still laugh,but it’s quiet now. The sound leaves my lips and stops before it reaches my heart. My chest feels tired, like it’s still learning how to feel again. I keep showing up. Even on days when I feel numb, Empty. E

My Dear Stranger, I carry two worlds inside me, and neither of them feels small. One world is visible. It knows how to speak, how to show up, how to survive. It answers emails. It keeps promises. It learns the language of rooms, the rhythm of crowds, the unspoken rules of being acceptable . This world smiles when it should. It nods. It adapts. It does what must be done. This world keeps me alive. But there is another world. Quieter. Heavier. A world that does not ask for perm

My Dear Stranger, I used to carry a feeling I couldn’t name. People called it anxiety. Others said I was broken. A mess. But to me, it felt like a quiet malfunction, my heart, my body, my mind moving on different frequencies, never quite meeting in the middle. A living paradox, I said. I try. I really do. I make plans. I say yes. I show up with a smile rehearsed in the mirror. Yet somewhere between agreeing and the moment itself, I secretly hope they’ll cancel. And when they

My Dear Stranger, I don’t know how to start this without sounding like I’m unraveling— But maybe that’s exactly what this is. Last night, I stood among people. Laughter floated around me like confetti. Music pulsed, loud enough to shake the air. Everyone seemed present. Alive. In sync. And yet— I wasn’t there. I was standing in the crowd, but I felt misplaced. Like a word written in the wrong sentence. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. Nodded when I was supposed to nod.

My Dear Stranger, I used to think my life was ordinary. Just days passing, one after another. But slowly, I began to notice something. I see things, not as they are, but as they are going to be. At first, it was small. A feeling before something happened. A knowing without proof. A heaviness before a moment arrived. I ignored it.' But it didn’t stop. It grew. What started as whispers became patterns. What felt like coincidence became clarity. And I began to realize— this wasn

My Dear Stranger, I was born different. I felt it even before I understood it. I was born into silence. Not because I had nothing to say, But because words could not reach me. Or maybe there were too many words inside my head, and I didn’t know how to let them out. They lived inside my head, crowded, restless, chaotic. My mouth felt locked. My thoughts were there, but they stayed trapped inside me. As if there was a door between my thoughts and the world, and I never learned

My Dear Stranger, I was not born strong. I was born soft. With a heart that feels before it thinks, that loves without asking. that hears what is never spoken, that notices pain hiding in the smallest corners. At first, it felt like a gift. Then it started to feel like a sentence. A burden. A curse. My Dear Stranger, Love scares me. Not because it is bad, but because it weakens me. It makes me weak. When I love, I give too much. I feel too much. I worry too much, I care too

My Dear Stranger, I am a walking paradox. I carry depth, yet struggle to name what I want. I feel everything, yet often can’t imagine anything clearly. I long for direction, but freeze when asked to describe the destination. There is also this quiet truth I rarely say out loud: Something that also confused me; I have no desire to build things in this life the way others do. Not houses, not legacies carved in stone, not the kind of permanence this world celebrates. I always fe

My Dear Stranger, I believe in fairy tales. Even when some people call it foolish, even when others whisper that it’s a sin to believe in something so unreligious. I believe in fairy tales. Not the kind with castles made of gold or endings that arrive without scars— but the kind where light survives the dark, where love keeps choosing again, where mercy rewrites what pain tried to erase. I believe in my fairy tale. One written not by fantasy, but by grace. One written by Je

My Dear Stranger, Today, I learned something the hard way: being a boss is not about standing taller, it is about standing longer, without slowly disappearing inside the role. No one tells you how power can be heavy. How decisions pile up like quiet stones in your chest. How leadership asks you to choose logic over instinct , numbers over nuance, certainty over wonder. I try. God knows I try. But my mind does not move in straight lines. I t wanders. It listens. It sees patt

My Dear Stranger, I’ve carried a feeling I could never quite name. Even as a child, before I had the words for it, I knew something wasn’t quite right. Not wrong in a dramatic way—just off, like a song played in the wrong key. A quiet heaviness in my chest, a whisper in the back of my mind, " this isn’t it… this isn’t where you belong. I grew up moving through places and moments as if I were always slightly out of frame. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, something in me s

My Dear Stranger, I grew up alone. Not always in a quiet room, but alone in the way that matters. I learned early how to stand on my own feet, how to be strong, how to survive without asking too much. When I should have been a child, I became a grown-up. Before my time. I didn’t get to play without worry, or do any mistakes. I didn't have privileges to choose freely what I liked or who I wanted to be. Life moved fast, and I had to move with it. I carried responsibility when

My Dear Stranger, I don’t remember a time when I felt ordinary. From the very beginning, I arrived quietly, weird, distant, painfully shy, as if I entered this world already knowing that I did not quite belong to it. They called me sensitive. Some called me strange. No one ever said gifted , but deep inside, I knew there was something different, something heavy, something sacred, something I did not yet have language for. I learned survival skills early. Long before childhoo

My Dear Stranger, There is something I have never known how to explain to other people. Something about me, Something that weighted me, confused me. I carry a heart that feels too much, soft, sensitive, easily moved. But I hide it behind walls so cold and strong, that even I forget what it feels like to be touched. My Dear Stranger, I don’t let my feelings out. I don’t let anyone in. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m scared of what might happen if I do. Sometimes I

My Dear Stranger, I took every tests, you named it. Not once. Not twice. Over and over, through different seasons of my life. And every time, the result came back the same, the rarest one. Always the outlier. Always the quiet margin note. Maybe it’s just a label. Maybe it’s just numbers and patterns. But somewhere deep inside, it felt like someone finally whispered, “Oh… so that’s why.” That’s why I feel too much and say too little. That’s why crowds exhaust me but silence he

My Dear Stranger, “Dreams work if you do it,” They said. Lately, I keep seeing those words everywhere. On screens. On pages. In passing conversations. And every time, they hit me. Pause me. I wonder why they keep finding me. The more I see them, The more I feel something stir, like a quiet reminder knocking from inside. And to whoever is trying to remind me, This is my honest answer: “I understand. I really do. But where do I begin? How? What am I supposed to work on if I don