Perks of being a wallflower

I met him at a time when everything felt light.

When songs sounded better and even airports felt less lonely.

He made the world look softer.

He became home before I even realised I was looking for one.

But love changes.

Somewhere along the way, the talking turned into silence.

And in that silence, I panicked.

I made mistakes — not because I didn’t love him, but because I was scared.

Scared of losing him.

Scared he’d see every side of me and decide I wasn’t worth it.

So I lied.

I thought I was protecting what we had, but all I did was break it.

When it all came out, everything fell apart.

He said he could forgive me only if I could go back in time and undo it.

And sometimes I wish I could.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back far enough to stop it all before it even began.

Or maybe go far enough to never meet him at all — because missing him like this feels unbearable.

I keep thinking of The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

That scene where memories are wiped clean.

I wonder, if I forgot him, would I also forget how it felt to sleep on the same side of the bed?

Would the 80s songs stop hurting?

Would my chest stop tightening every time I pass by his street?

Or would I just walk around with an emptiness I can’t explain, like something’s missing but I don’t know what?

Maybe that’s what love does — it brands you so deep that even forgetting won’t save you.

People say I’ve become stronger.

Maybe.

But strength doesn’t look like what they think it does.

It’s not brave or shiny.

It’s me waking up every day, checking my phone, hoping there’s a message.

There never is.

And still, I get up.

Still, I breathe.

I distract myself with noise — music, reels, anything — because silence takes me straight back to him.

I don’t think I’m healed yet.

But I’m learning how to live with this.

How to carry the memories without letting them crush me.

I’ve stopped wishing for the Time Machine.

Because if I erased the pain, I’d erase the love too.

And maybe, for all that it cost me, it was still worth feeling something that real.

The bed still feels empty.

The songs still sting.

But sometimes, for a few seconds, I catch myself humming them again.

And maybe that’s what healing is — not forgetting, not moving on, but slowly learning how to live again.