Fragmented Story | After All These Years

Some things are never fully lost. They stay in pieces, in corners of the mind, surfacing as the scent of rain, the pages of an old book, or a place you never intended to return to.

This fragmented story, After All These Years, reflects on such moments—small towns and bookstores, old love, and the what-ifs that never fade away. Nostalgic, like turning through an old book and discovering a dried flower between its pages. A memory of something once vibrant that has faded but is never fully gone.

There is no big resolution here. Just realizing that certain relationships change over time but never completely disappear. They settle into the crevices of life, becoming part of our identities. And maybe that is enough.

The rain poured down without mercy, chilling and drenching, seeping through every layer of clothing and skin. The town loomed in the distance. Its narrow path meanders through shadows created by bent lampposts and the subtle shape of a river in the distance. Though I never intended to stop here, I did. The rain was relentless, and I needed a refuge. This place was as good as anywhere with cafes and warmth.

Then I caught sight of it. A little worn-out sign swinging in the rain. I read the name and felt my throat seize. How long has it been? A lifetime has passed, but the heart maintains its own sense of time, unencumbered by the limitations of calendars and years.

I felt a strong instinct to turn away. I suppose it’s easier to face the storm outside than what lies within. But my curiosity drove me forward. Parking and gathering my stuff, I braved the downpour. On the cold iron doorknob, my hand trembled. The cold seeped into my flesh, and before I could think twice, the door softly cracked open.

The aroma of old paper and a subtle earthy tone greeted me first. The dim light created shadows on the walls, which were filled with books that appeared to go on forever. It was like entering a place that seemed to stand still in time.

And then I spotted him.

He sat behind the counter, buried in the pages of a book. In some ways, he looked the same. However, there were also signs of time. Strands of silver in his hair, a sweater frayed at the cuffs, and the faint heaviness of a life lived alone.

He didn’t notice me at first. For a brief moment I forgot how to breathe. The soft rustling of the page he turned brought me back to the moment. He glanced upward. Our eyes met, and then those years vanished in an instant. There was no dramatic pause or rush of words.

Time has passed as it inevitably does. It leads us into lives that are separate and distant from one another. But in the soft glow of this overlooked part of the world, that distance seemed trivial.

The conversation that ensued didn’t focus on the past, at least not in a direct way. Our discourse danced around the periphery, hinting at years and stories that belonged to others. Our separate lives had been transformed by the absence of the other. Despite our best efforts to distance ourselves, the past remained between us.

The rain subsided while we talked. Its steady beat taps against the windowpanes. Our conversation didn’t lead to any resolution or sudden insight. Instead, there was something more nuanced, perhaps a sense of acceptance or a hesitant acknowledgement of what remained.

I found myself hesitating when it was time to go. Our conversation brought a sense of peace, like a gentle reminder of the shared moments with someone who once meant so much. But I had to go. Time went by, and the people we had turned into existed in separate realities.

I stepped back into the drizzle and back in my car. My heart aches because it finally understood that some connections, no matter how changed by time, never really disappear. They stay, though no longer in their original form. They turned into echoes that tightly knotted into the essence of our being.

And maybe that was all it needed to be.

Related story: Being In the Same Room Again

I Am the Keeper of Memories

I have always been known for my strong memory. Friends, family, and even casual acquaintances have commented on it over the years on how I can recall details from years, even decades ago, with a clarity that surprises them. It surprises me too because I always assumed everyone could remember past events with the same vividness. But that’s not true. Many of my ex-school friends barely remember incidents from our school life. I remember names too. When I look at past photos, even ones from decades ago, I can point out who is who. No, I don’t spend my time reminiscing or dwelling on the past. The details are just there, fresh in my mind, ready to be plucked whenever needed.

A photo with my school friends from 34 years ago. Many have become successful individuals in the community. One person has gone on to become the State Director of the Malaysia Public Works Department, and another, a pediatrician.

I don’t just remember past events. I remember the emotions and the atmosphere associated with those events. You could say that I’m a sensory person or someone with an eidetic memory because those vivid experiences still live within me. It could be anything—a song playing in the background, the scent of rain on warm pavement, the gentle breeze swaying the leaves, the color of the sky on a particular afternoon, or even the call of a lonesome nightbird that woke me up in the middle of the night when I was four.

Sometimes, it feels like a gift. It allows me to tell stories with depth and remember people and moments with an intimacy that others often lose to time.

Several months ago, my ex-schoolmate invited me into their chat group. I was delighted to reconnect with old friends I hadn’t spoken to in more than three decades. We talked about many past incidents, mostly funny moments from that time in our lives. I told stories as if they had just happened recently. Many friends come to me when they need to piece together an old memory, to recall things they’ve long since forgotten. In many ways, I have become the keeper of our shared histories.

However, it is not always easy to carry so much of the past. You might think nostalgia is a wistful feeling, but to me, it’s a lingering echo of what once was. Memories often return unbidden, resurfacing with the right song, a familiar scent, or a sudden shift in the wind. And sometimes, it feels like I am standing at the threshold of two worlds: one that has already been lived and one that I am trying to step into. Moving forward can be difficult when the past refuses to fade quietly.

I make art and write to make sense of it all. My poetry and art are more than just venues for self-expression—they are my way of processing, seeking closure. I have the habit of revisiting the same themes and emotions again and again until I have finally made peace with them. Only then can I move on, allowing the memory to rest. It is like closing a book. I don’t erase or discard these memories; they will always exist within me. They just no longer hold power over me.

Perhaps, through all of this, I am learning how to honor the past without being held captive by it. My memories shape the person I am, but they do not confine me. And maybe, in sharing these stories—putting words or images to what lingers—I can find a way to move forward without leaving anything behind.

The handwritten draft of this post.

Fragmented Story | His Days Were Long

Writing complete stories has never been my style. My mind wanders, seeking and focusing on moments and emotions that demand attention, even if they don’t always fit neatly into a beginning, middle, and end—like poetry. I find myself drawn to fragments of moments that exist between greater narratives. It’s in these fragments that I discover what I need to express, often eliciting more emotion with a single, still snapshot than an entire storyline.

This piece, His Days Were Long, is one such fragment. It’s a story of a man torn between his responsibilities and a yearning he can’t quite shake. It’s a little piece of a wider web of stories that live within me, ready to be told one at a time. These moments are disjointed and incomplete but filled with meaning, but these are where I feel most alive in my writing. So I’ll keep sharing them in bits and pieces, each with its own truth and emotion.

His days were long. His nights were even longer. He lived in a world of crime scenes, cold cases, and sleepless chases under neon-lit streets. Whether he was flipping through reports, putting cuffs on suspects, or driving while tailing someone through the rain, his hands were always busy.

But it didn’t matter how deep he was in a case or how many hours he worked; his mind would always go back to her.

He would often feel it in the quiet moments—between interrogations or right before he kicked open a door. The agony of missing her. He’d wonder what she was doing, if she was thinking of him too. Sometimes he’d reach for his phone, tempted to bridge the gap between them. But then duty would pull him back, and he’d shove the thought away.

But it was the nights that were the worst. Sitting at his desk, the only light coming from the flickering lamp above him. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t stop. He’d lean back, close his eyes, and there she was. That smile. Her giggle. The tilt of her head when she was amused.

And in those moments he hated that he wasn’t with her.

Maybe that’s why he pushed hard, worked himself to the bone because he was afraid that if he stopped, he’d remember how much he wanted and needed her.

Handwritten draft of this story.

Reflection | The Legacies We Leave Behind

I wasn’t close to Michelle, but when I received news of her passing, it stirred something deep in me. It’s a quiet grief that lingered long after the news settled. It reminded me how one person’s kindness can ripple through your life and leave marks you only notice years later.

Michelle came into my life over 20 years ago when I was at my lowest and at a pivotal moment of my life. I barely knew her; she was literally a stranger, but she opened her door and her heart to me. She took me in and let me stay in her home for several days. She drove me around, and for a few precious days, she made me feel seen and safe. She introduced me to her wonderful family, and they welcomed me as if I belonged. In that moment she became a safe place for me when my world felt fractured.

She didn’t have to do that because we weren’t close friends. But there she was, extending a hand when I needed it most. Looking back, I can see how God placed her in my path like a lit candle in the dark. Her kindness changed something deep in my heart that changed the course of my life.

Since then, that memory has quietly shaped the way I move through the world. I made a promise to myself that I would pay that kindness forward in my own quiet ways. Michelle showed me that even the smallest gestures can leave lasting ripples far beyond what we might ever see.

Although I didn’t attend her wake service, I watched it live on Facebook. The hall was full with friends and family grieving and also celebrating her life. Eulogies painted a picture of someone who lived fully, who loved deeply, and who touched countless lives. And before she passed, Michelle left behind a message that touches my heart. Here’s an excerpt:

“My dearest friends and kindred spirits, do not cry, do not grieve, do not be sad for me, I have already taken flight—gracefully! The beauty of life lies in its fullness, to love and to hate, to laugh and to cry, to sing and to speak, to run and to dance, to journey through this world with passion and abandon, to stand against injustice, to live boldly and fiercely. I have lived, truly lived, and I leave this world without regret. Yet the hardest part is leaving behind my family and all of you. My heart is bound to you by love, and it is love that makes parting so bittersweet. My beloved ones, be brave. Live with strength, with purpose, with an unyielding spirit. Do not waste this precious journey on earth! Though imperfect, this world holds endless surprises of joy, sorrow, and wonder—do not let them pass you by.”

Her words are full of grace and clarity. It is a farewell I believe most of us never get the chance to write. It really made me think, what if life doesn’t give us that opportunity? What if we leave suddenly without a chance to say goodbye?

That question stays in my mind. Not everyone gets to leave behind a final message, but perhaps that’s why we should live in a way that doesn’t leave room for regret. We should make sure our love is felt in the present, not just left for the end. We can write our goodbyes not in a single letter before death but in the way we live, so that if tomorrow never comes, the people who matter already know what they meant to us.

Michelle’s passing made me think deeply about the kind of legacy I want to leave behind. While I may not touch lives in the same immediate way she did, I hope my art and words—through my blog and poetry—will be my offering. I want my way of self-expression to become a soft place for someone else to land.

We don’t always get to see the ripples we create in others’ lives. But I believe they exist somewhere because Michelle showed me that. And I hope in my own way, I can leave behind something meaningful: a legacy built not on outstanding achievements but on quiet truths.

Maybe for some of us, it’s not about how many people pay tribute at our funerals. Maybe it’s about the small, beautiful things we leave behind—kindness, goodness, or the moments when someone reads you words and feels understood, or when your art brings them a sense of belonging. And that’s the kind of legacy I hope to leave when my time comes.

Handwritten draft of this post.

Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors

When I close my eyes, memories rise like smoke from a dying fire. I can still hear the gendang’s beating and my family’s joyful chatter from Gawai. I was ten years old and surrounded by the warmth of my people. The elders shared stories of our ancestors—Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, Aji Apai Limpa, and Nakhoda Panglima Budin Gerasi—all courageous warriors of great renown. That courage, I’ve been told, is in my blood. But what does that mean in a place so far removed from their reality?

I’ve recently been reading Xiaolu Guo’s Nine Continents: A Memoir In and Out of China. Her exploration of identity, displacement, and cultural heritage resonates deeply with me. Xiaolu often addresses issues of alienation and belonging in her works, and she has become one of my favorite authors. Her writing inspired me to think about my own journey, which led me to write this post.

Our Warrior Culture

The Iban were famed for their warrior culture, defined by war expeditions and headhunting. It was once an important aspect of our spiritual beliefs and society framework. To be Iban means to be a warrior. Headhunting was not a barbaric pastime, as outsiders may believe. It was a necessary way of life since it signified protection, honor, and a connection to the spirit realm. While the act itself faded into history, the essence of the courage has been passed down through generations.

I often asked myself, “What remains of the warrior spirit?”. Sometimes it feels like a quiet force pushing me forward. In moments of difficulty, I draw on the courageous spirit of my ancestors. Their legacy reminds me that I have the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps it is genetic memory, the invisible link that ties me to my ancestors and passes down the legacy of courage across generations.

The Loss of Tradition

However, bravery alone cannot fill the gaps. Living in urban places like Kuala Lumpur has distanced me from the traditions that constitute my identity. When my extended family embraced Christianity in the 1950s, it marked a shift from animistic beliefs. Urban living also entails replacing the communal life of the longhouse. Many other aspects of our culture are disappearing, such as the extensive oral poetry tradition.

I am caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, I value the opportunities and conveniences of modern living. On the other hand, I mourn the loss of vibrant traditions that shaped our way of life. These losses make me wonder how we can honor the past while embracing the present.

Image source The late Temenggong Koh (left), one of the last Iban warleaders of the 20th century, before headhunting was completely outlawed by the British colony.

The Sense of Alienation

Life in the city often exacerbates this disconnection. Here, I am just a fragment of an Iban: a name that suggests a foreign land, a face that others might find unfamiliar. When people ask where I’m from, my responses may seem inadequate. How can I explain a longhouse? Or, even if I can explain it, how do I dispel their misconception that modern Ibans still live on trees and wear loincloths? How can I explain our different Gawai, or traditional festivals, when they typically only celebrate one or two holidays, like Eid or Lunar New Year? However, in the heart of this alienation, I’ve realized that identity is not static. It is a fluid interplay of past and present, shaped by our decisions and circumstances.

Strength Through Cultural Roots

Nonetheless, I remain connected to my roots. They are not always visible, but they are present. My ancestors’ courage motivates me to face my fears and embrace the unknown. The warrior spirit is not a relic from the past but rather a driving force in my life today.

During difficult times, I found myself returning to the stories of my ancestors. They endured jungles, battles, and scarcity. I remind myself of their tenacity—if they can endure, so can I.

The loud proclamation of success does not equate to strength. Perseverance and the ability to adapt without forgetting are qualities that define strength. The warrior spirit is about enduring in a world that often forces us to forget who we are.

Preserving Tradition

My original poem from Sarawak collection of poetry

Poetry has been one way for me to preserve my culture. Writing has become a means of connecting the past and present, who I was and who I am becoming. It allows me to hold onto what feels like it’s slipping away.

I aspire to one day publish my poems and leave a legacy for my children. When the time comes for them to discover their roots, I hope my words will serve as a guide, helping them understand who they are and where they came from. Writing allows me to keep the stories alive as the world around us changes.

My identity is a patchwork of memories, stories, and dreams. I am neither fully of the past nor fully of the present. But maybe that’s what it means to be Iban today: to walk on a bridge, perpetually caught between two realities.

I am part of something bigger than myself, a heritage of power, fortitude, and endurance. While I may live far away from my people’s homeland, the essence of my heritage lives on, molding my journey and grounding me in a world that is often divided.

I carry the warrior spirit with me because I am descended from people who endured. So I take a step forward, not knowing where the journey will take me, but knowing it is worthwhile. Like the warrior spirit that runs through my blood, this journey is not always easy, but it is always worth it.

My cousin’s traditional wedding.

Reflection | Fossils, Letters, and Love Across Time

So, I came across The Last Guard the other day. No, it’s not the latest K-drama or Hollywood movie. It refers to the discovery of multiple fossilized psittacosaur cubs found alongside what appears to be an older sibling. The older sibling was guarding or babysitting the cubs when they were buried by a volcanic debris flow. This group of fossils was discovered by a paleontologist, Dean Lomax.

“The largest fossil does not have the dimensions of a sexually mature adult, so it is not it could have been one of the parents; most likely who has been the older brother of the little babies” The find is exceptionally preserved, and appears in his book “Locked in Time – Animal Behavior Unearthed in 50 Extraordinary Fossils” Source

Image source

It stopped me in my tracks and made me reflect. I mean, imagine that a big dino brother is protecting the younger siblings and its final act is frozen in time. It’s heartbreaking, but it got me thinking: why did dinosaurs even exist? Were they here just to live their lives and then become the fossil fuel that now powers our world?

It’s kind of wild to think about it. Now, just a side point: do you know that during the time of dinosaurs, the earth’s atmosphere was thicker due to higher levels of volcanic activity and greenhouse gases? The sky would be hazier, possibly obscuring the clarity of the night sky. So these dinosaurs probably couldn’t see the crystal-clear starlit night we enjoy today. These massive creatures never saw a sky full of stars the way we do, but now millions of years later, their fossils power our rockets, propelling us into that very sky. It’s poetic, isn’t it? That nothing in this world really lost. They were just transformed. Dinosaurs that once roamed the earth are now the force sending us into the universe. It’s all connected, a continuum of life, death, and dreams.

And millions of years later, here we are looking at their fossils and reflecting on their existence. An older sibling protecting the cubs. If this is not love, though instinctual in nature, I don’t know what is. Their story didn’t end with extinction. It lives on in the fuel that powers our world and in moments like this when we pause to think about them.

Have you heard about The Letter to Lee Eung Tae? The Last Guard made me think of that letter too. The Letter to Lee Eung Tae was written 500 years ago by a grieving pregnant Korean Joseon widow to her deceased husband Lee Eung Tae. The Last Guard versus The Letter to Lee Eung Tae. Two moments in history, so different but connected. One is a silent act of love embedded in ash, and the other is a deep grief written onto paper. Both moments are remnants of love carried through time.

Image source

I wept when I read the widow’s letter to her beloved husband. Five hundred years didn’t erase the pain and longing in her words.

“You always said to me, “We’ll be together until our hair turns gray, then die together”, so how could you go and leave without me? Whom should I and our child turn to; how should we live? How could you leave us all behind and go on your own?…Each time we lay together, I asked you “Dear, do other people love and cherish each other as we do? Are they like us?” How could you forget my words and abandon me?…I cannot live without you. I want to go to you quickly, so please take me to you. I cannot forget the feelings I had for you in this life, there is no limit to my sorrow. I don’t know if I can go on; where do I put these feelings that I have, while raising a child that misses their father? Please read this letter, then come to me in my dreams…” Source

Definitely stuff of K-drama.

This letter is like The Last Guard; it silently speaks of that protective love. This is love in all its forms, instinctual or deeply human, that transcends time.

And maybe that’s the real point. Nothing is ever really gone. Whether it’s a dinosaur’s final sacrifice or a widow’s grieving words, their legacies find us. They connect past and present, life and death, in this vast web of existence. Even in extinction or loss, there’s continuity and transformation that reached us at this present age.

It makes me wonder, what if millions of years from now, someone looks back at us? Someone finds our digital fossil buried beneath layers of forgotten time. And there they’d be reading our words and confessions, once alive and fragile but burning deeply. Would they feel the same reflection and connection we feel now when we look at fossils or read ancient letters?

In the end, maybe love is what truly matters. And maybe that’s also what it’s all about, leaving traces of ourselves behind. Traces of our existence, our love, our dreams, waiting for someone to find them and feel them all over again.

Handwritten draft of this post.

Becoming Me | A Journey Through Love, Heritage, and Doubt

Daily writing prompt

What experiences in life helped you grow the most?

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It’s funny how the experiences that change us the most often slip by quietly. There is little fanfare, and we rarely recognize them until much later. However, in retrospect, I can trace my growth to the struggles and the soft, persistent ways life nudged me forward.

I believe it started with loneliness. Growing up, I often felt invisible and alone. I wasn’t the most outgoing, pretty, or popular. I was just…there, among other outstanding siblings and peers. It’s strange, but loneliness formed the foundation of who I am now. It taught me to listen to both myself and others. It taught me to be more observant and sensitive to details that most people overlook, which I now use in my art and writing.

Then later came love. It was messy, imperfect, but glorious nonetheless. My relationship with my husband—my lover—has been one of my biggest teachers. We’re opposites in so many ways, and those differences have forced me to stretch, to compromise, and to forgive. Being married this long (two decades), going through joys, heartbreaks, financial strains, and raising kids has all been a daily practice of choosing love, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

However, I believe that reconnecting with my Iban roots has been the most transforming experience for me. For a long time, I felt detached from my cultural identity, as if I were witnessing it from afar. It was not intentional. Life was tugging me in different directions. But being a mother changed that. I realized how much I wanted my children to know where they came from. I want them to learn and feel that deep connection I had almost let go of. Teaching them about my Iban heritage has been like teaching myself again by rediscovering the stories, the poetry, and the parts of me I had tucked away.

I am currently working on a collection of poems that explores my Iban roots and traditions, weaving together memories, folklore, and the cultural theme that continues to shape who I am today.

And then there’s the lifetime of inner journey: the insecurities, the doubts, and the fear of not being good enough. Those have been some of my hardest teachers. I’ve struggled with impostor syndrome more times than I can remember, particularly when it comes to my art and writing. Moments such as being harshly criticized for lack of originality, feeling misunderstood, or being dismissed had a deep effect on me. But these experiences also pushed me to create a space where I feel free without fear of judgment, like starting this blog.

All of these experiences—loneliness, love, the return to my Iban roots, and issues with self-doubt—have influenced me the most. These experiences didn’t come with shiny lessons, but they taught me to be more compassionate, patient, and a little kinder to myself.

I’m still growing and figuring things out. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that growth doesn’t always happen in the big, loud moments. Sometimes it is in the moments you least expect, gently nudging you forward, one tentative step at a time.

The Advice I Needed as a Teen (And Still Do Sometimes)

Daily writing prompt

What advice would you give to your teenage self?

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If I could go back and sit beside my geeky teen self, I think I’d reach out, touch her cheek, and say this:

“You are enough, just as you are.”

I know she wouldn’t believe me right away. She’d probably frown and give me that skeptical side-eye, thinking I was just being nice. But I’d say it again, assuring her I’m not being cheesy, hoping it would sink into her heart and seep through her doubts.

“You don’t need to be prettier, louder, or more extroverted to be seen or loved. Your sensitivity, the depths you hold, the way you notice the smallest details, and the emotions you feel so deeply: they are not to be ashamed of. They are your gifts.”

When I was growing up, I often wondered why people liked me. I didn’t see what they saw. I wasn’t the popular kid, or the prettiest, gentlest girl, and I definitely wasn’t the life of the party. I was scrawny, awkward, quiet, and always second-guessing myself and my decisions. I spent so much time trying to figure out what made me special.

I’d tell her this too: “Don’t waste time wondering why others like you or if you’re worthy of it. You are worthy just as you are. Let yourself be vulnerable without feeling weak. Let yourself dream without fear of not being good enough.”

There were so many time when I felt like I was running, desperate to catch up, to fit in, to be noticed, to be the best. I’d want her to know she could stop running and start breathing.

I’d tell her, “Trust your voice because it will take you places you never imagined. And when the world feels overwhelming, turn to the things that make your heart sing—music, poetry, art. They will remind you of who you are when you feel lost.”

If I could give my teenage self anything, it would be that sense of peace. The peace that gives her understanding that she didn’t need to constantly strive to be more. She was already enough and complete. And maybe, just maybe, hearing that would have made her journey a little gentler.

So, if any of you are reading this and feel like you’re still that teenager inside, this is for you too:

You are enough, just as you are.

What Bores Olivia? (From Her Lover’s Perspective)

Daily writing prompt

What bores you?

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What bores me? Instead of answering the question like others did, I sent it to my lover to check how well he knew me. He said he’d send the responses via email since, in his words, “you’re a lot to handle.” 😂. Here are his answers, edited for clarity.

Perfection

What is the first thing that comes to mind? People who appear to have everything together: always happy, always in control, and never a hair out of place. You can’t bear it. It bores you because it feels so fake. You seek authenticity, those raw, unpolished moments that reveal who someone truly is. You’re not really interested in perfection. You are drawn to the faults and weaknesses that make someone real.

Small Talks

If someone wants to quickly lose your attention, they can engage you in small talk or any other surface-level conversation. Talk about the weather for too long, or go on about a reality program without getting into the underlying issues, and you’ll mentally fade out. You desire depth. You like discussions about emotions, dreams, fears, and everything in between.

Playing It Too Safe

It’s not that you despise routine and predictability. You thrive on them. What bores you is when individuals live too conservatively, never taking risks or venturing outside of their comfort zones. When someone lives their life strictly by the book, avoiding adventures and fresh experiences, it feels stagnant to you. You like those who embrace spontaneity, take risks, and are prepared to stray from the usual path.

Lack of Authenticity

This one relates to the perfection part, but it goes deeper. You despise fakery, whether it’s someone claiming to be someone they aren’t or stuff that shouts “look at me!” with no true substance. You require honesty, even if it is messy or uncomfortable.

Indulging in Fluff

Scrolling endlessly through social media, surrounded by polished perfection and trendy fluff? You become bored quickly. You enjoy thoughtful material because it challenges you to think, feel, or even question your own perspectives. Fluff without substance is simply pointless.

Surface-Level Relationships

This is a big one. You’re not wired for shallow connections. You desire depth and honesty in your relationships, and when someone keeps things light and never reveals their actual self, you lose interest. You seek the deep, real connections that result from being open and authentic.

Indecisiveness and Selfishness

Especially in men. This is a huge turnoff for you. You admire those who understand themselves and can make difficult decisions. But indecisiveness combined with selfishness? That combination is more boring than anything else.

Obsession with Outward Success

Nothing turns you off faster than those who solely care about outer appearances such as physical beauty, riches, high-paying jobs, position, and titles. You find it shallow and tiring when someone’s self-worth is primarily based on their accomplishments or appearance. You feel there is far more to a person than what appears on the surface or on paper.

At your core, Olivia, you want depth, honesty, and authenticity in people, conversations, and life itself. You want to experience something genuine, even if it is chaotic, confusing, or imperfect.

So that are his answers. Some may redundant but you know what? He got it right 😍🥰😘💋

Poetry Art | Unattainable

This is one of the series of poetry art I sketched throughout the years. This series of four drawings is titled Unattainable. There is no need for background story because this series is deeply personal. I let the words speak for themselves. All rights reserved.

The ache of missing someone you can’t have

is like catching a glimpse of

a distant star,

knowing its brilliance

will forever be out of reach.

But your heart is a stubborn optimist

forever yearning for the warmth of a

connection that

could never be.

But as seasons change

and life moves forward

you find solace

in the acceptance of what is.

Because sometimes

the most profound connections are the ones

that remain unspoken,

tucked away in the secret corners

of your heart.