relationships – fortuitouspurpose

Missing Someone

Missing someone isn’t one emotion. It’s a spectrum — quiet, wild, and sometimes cruel. It shifts depending on what part of the past it clings to, what kind of love it remembers, and what kind of silence it leaves behind.

1. Missing the Memories

The most familiar kind. You think you miss your ex — the late-night calls, the shared experiences, inside jokes that once made ordinary days feel cinematic. You miss the relationship, however messy or imperfect it was, because it held a version of you that believed in love a certain way — wildly, recklessly, without knowing better.

And maybe that’s what you’re really missing — her, the old you. The one who kept showing up, even when things didn’t make sense. Loving that past version of yourself is necessary. Because as we grow, that part of us, the one that loved so fearlessly dies a little. What remains is her ghost, whispering reminders of who we once were.

So perhaps it isn’t the person or even the relationship you miss. It’s that echo inside you, the memory of your own innocence, the hope that once burned bright before it learned the art of self-protection.

2. Missing Someone “Just Because”

Then there’s the kind that arrives uninvited. No song, no photograph, no reason at all. You just find yourself thinking of your friends from when you were in college (young, wild and free), the ones who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who held your secrets without judgment, who made you feel safe enough to simply be. With them, there was no need to edit yourself or explain your silences.

You don’t miss one particular moment; you miss the energy of belonging. It’s not sadness, it’s remembrance. A quiet gratitude for what was. Your heart still hums their frequency, the familiar vibration of genuineness, even if your lives have drifted apart or your cities no longer overlap.

3. Missing the Person

This one is quieter and deeper. It’s not about what you did together, it’s about who they were. The way they made you feel grounded, seen, alive. You could have every photograph, every message, and still feel the hollow of their absence. Because this isn’t nostalgia, it’s knowing that something irreplaceable once existed. It’s missing what no one else could ever be.

4. Missing Through Love

I once came across a quote:

“You cannot miss someone as much as you love them.”

The depth of your missing will never exceed the depth of your love. You feel it most when you think of family — your parents, your roots. You miss them even when they’re right there, sitting beside you. You miss the versions of them that existed when you were small, the safety of their presence before life’s complexities took over. This kind of missing isn’t about loss; it’s about continuity, love echoing through time, changing shape but never fading.

5. The Kind That Feels Like Longing

And then, there’s the rarest kind. The missing that refuses to fade. The kind that feels like longing — sacred, eternal. It’s what you feel for a true love, the one who touched your soul in ways you can’t unlearn. You move forward, you live your life, but something in you still turns toward them, like a flower bending to the light. You can’t explain it. You can’t quiet it. It doesn’t ask for reunion. It simply is.

It’s love without demand — pure, patient, infinite.

There are many ways to miss someone. Some are fleeting; others stay for years. Some ache; others heal. But maybe the truth is this, missing isn’t always pain. Sometimes it’s a quiet way of remembering love in all its forms.

Because sometimes, the missing is the love.

Diary Entry Day 2: Things That Suddenly Make Sense

I didn’t feel like writing this morning. I’ve been up for a couple of hours, just circling the urge. Maybe it’s because I started feeling better yesterday, and I’m afraid that revisiting the memory will take me back to numbness.

Still, I tried. I revisited the memory to see if any tears would come. Nothing. But something’s shifting. I can feel it. Not in the form of tears, but in how so many other memories are resurfacing. Pieces I never understood before are suddenly making sense.

One that came up was from the time of a terrorist attack in Mumbai. The blast happened at a train station near my house. I was scared, alone, and couldn’t sleep. I remember lying in my aunt’s bed after she had moved out after living with us for a while after her divorce. That night, trying to soothe myself, I touched myself. I don’t know if it’s connected, but it came up now. Maybe because during the memory retraction process, I pictured her sitting on that same bed, even though she wasn’t there in the actual event that took place. My mind’s been stitching together things I hadn’t thought about in years.

More moments like that are surfacing. I remember a therapist once asked me how I perceive sex. I didn’t have a clear answer. I just knew it never felt pure. Never good. It always felt like something I had to hide. Something I wasn’t supposed to enjoy.

In college, it shifted a bit. I acted out more when I was drunk — not from freedom, but from rebellion. I even got a tramp stamp after I saw a girl getting too close to someone I had just started seeing. It wasn’t about betrayal. It was about control. It was about doing something because I wanted to and I could.

The pattern became clear: I could only get close to men when I wasn’t sober. When I was numb. When it didn’t feel real.

I once had a dream around the time I started therapy again. In the dream, there was a safe in my old college room. The safe was rumbling, vibrating. I was terrified to open it, sure that a ghost would jump out. I never had a safe in college. But I know what the dream was telling me now. That locked-up part of me was ready to shake open.

A lot of anger toward my mom has started to rise. I’m mad at her for letting this happen. But I also know, somewhere deep down, that she couldn’t have stopped it. These things don’t announce themselves. And the people who hurt you are rarely strangers. Still, I hope she did something when she found out — maybe during the divorce proceedings with my aunt. I hope she made him pay somehow. I don’t know.

I’ve been called so many things in my life — slut, loose, promiscuous — and none of it was ever true. I had only slept with one person until I was thirty. Yes, I got drunk. Yes, I made choices that may have looked messy from the outside. But I was trying to survive.

I’ve been blamed for leading men on and not following through. But all I’ve ever wanted was something simple. Something beautiful.

Even the fantasies, the kinks, the desires — they weren’t coming from freedom. They came from hurt. I never acted on most of them. They didn’t feel like me. They felt like something dirty. Something I’d regret. My mind might crave it, but my body never really wanted it. I remember one night when I got really drunk at a conference. When we got intimate, I physically couldn’t open up. I wasn’t safe. Not emotionally. Not physically. My body said no.

I’ve been remembering that too.

Yesterday, at a café, Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On started playing. And something in me softened. I remembered seeing it in a movie once — a scene where two people are making love, tenderly, truly in love. It made me realize that’s what I want my sex song to be. Not like Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon — the one I used to think defined me. That song was all heat, chaos, and craving. This one is warmth, permission, connection. I don’t want desire fueled by rebellion anymore. I want something slow, sacred, and safe. I want softness, the kind that doesn’t have to scream to be heard.

Today’s Truth:

Some healing doesn’t come in tears.
It comes in understanding why you’ve lived the way you have.
And deciding you’re allowed to live differently now.

Fight or Flight

It’s been a while since I last wrote here. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was writing something much bigger. A book. And now, I can say it out loud: I’m a published author.

It feels surreal. Not just because it’s a lifelong dream, but because this book feels like an extension of this space. If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll find traces of it in every chapter: the same voice, the same questions, just with a deeper descent. Writing it was like peeling back the layers of who I thought I was, only to meet the parts of me I had tucked away in silence.

In the process, I uncovered corners of myself that were heavy with darkness. Some still are. There are parts I’m still trying to make peace with, wounds I didn’t even know were still bleeding. Writing this book was not cathartic in the usual sense. It was confronting. At times, it felt like drowning in memory, only to come up gasping for breath and wondering if I’d ever feel whole again.

But here’s the thing: these memories, these unresolved knots, don’t surface until we’re ready. And I was ready, even if I didn’t feel like it.

One memory in particular has stayed with me. A pattern, really. One I’ve repeated without even realising it: getting close to men who either needed to be saved, or who saw me as a threat. Relationships where being strong meant being emasculating. Where my shine felt like their shadow. And slowly, without realising it, I kept shrinking or contorting to make them feel okay, while dimming parts of myself in the process.

Not all men in my life have been like this. But the closest ones, my father and an ex have. My father was absent in the moments I needed protection. Worse, he was the one I needed protection from. Physical harm, emotional neglect, a silence so loud it shaped how I saw myself as a girl in the world. And then came the ex. Infidelity. Emotional immaturity. A strange dependency masked as love. The kind that chips away at you until you’re left wondering how you ever tolerated that version of “care.”

Looking back, I realise I was often forced into my masculine energy, always in survival mode. I forgot what it meant to feel soft. To feel held. To simply be a woman. My divine feminine self felt like a distant memory, something I only caught glimpses of in solitude.

Last night, I woke up with a storm in my chest. Anger. Pure, raw, old anger. And for the first time, I let it be. I didn’t rationalize it, or quiet it, or sugarcoat the story. I named it for what it was: injustice. I saw clearly the ways I had been harmed. Not just physically, but in spirit. And how for so long, I was the one making excuses on behalf of those who had no business being excused. No more.

This post isn’t a travel story. But in some ways, it is. Because travel has always been my escape route. I was either running from a version of masculinity that hurt me or toward one I thought would save me, only to find more hurt. My fight-or-flight response? It was literally booking flights.

But that energy, that fire in me, I’m finally learning to channel it into something different. Something sacred. I’m building a life that honours the feminine within me. The part that feels deeply, loves fully, and doesn’t apologise for softness, stillness, or depth. It’s not about rejecting the masculine, but letting it rise only when needed. Not to dominate, but to protect and support. The feminine in me is no longer something I mute to survive. It’s something I now choose to live by. Because that energy, gentle, intuitive, nurturing is powerful too. And it deserves to take up space.

There’s power in this balance. I used to think vulnerability made me weak. That grief, fear, or sadness were emotions to hide. But recently, in conversation, someone reframed it for me. “It’s not weakness. It’s vulnerability.” And vulnerability, I’ve come to see, is courage in its truest form. To feel everything and still choose to stay. To keep loving. To keep healing.

If you’ve ever been in that space—navigating the abyss—I see you. I honour your strength.

And as for me? I know I’m not done yet. There’s more shadow to meet. More stories to unearth. But now, I don’t fear it. This isn’t a war between the broken and the healed versions of me. This is a reunion. An invitation to bring love to the parts of myself that never received it.

Because that’s what true healing is: not fixing, but integrating. Not hardening, but softening. And remembering that every version of me—past, present, becoming—is worthy of love.