Letters to Empress

  There’s a kind of anger that comes with loss—one that nobody prepares you for. At first, it’s not even directed at a person. It’s not even specific. It just  is . This intense, burning rage that rises in your chest and makes you feel like screaming into the void. And the worst part? There’s nowhere to put it. At first, my anger was with the world. I kept asking the same questions over and over again: Why is the world so cruel? Why do the kindest people suffer the most? Why does it feel like life picks on the ones who are already down? I kept wondering,  how can one person go through so much pain in one lifetime and still be expected to smile, to function, to survive? And so I’d sit alone, and this storm would build inside me. So loud. So violent. But I couldn’t punch the world. I couldn’t scream at time. I couldn’t shake death by the collar and tell it to bring her back. Lately, though—and I hate to even admit this—but the anger sometimes finds its way to her. Not ...

  Have you ever mourned someone who didn’t die—but simply stopped loving you? When an important relationship ends, the grief is unlike anything else. It’s not always explosive. Sometimes it’s slow. Silent. Like a room gradually running out of oxygen. And in that suffocation, you start to feel something terrifying—like your mind is splitting in two. One half is rational. The voice of truth. It whispers things like, “They’re gone. They treated you coldly. They flirted with other people while you were breaking. They ignored you when all you needed was a little love, a little effort.” That version of you knows this isn’t what love looks like. It knows real love shows up. Real love doesn’t vanish when you're drowning. Real love doesn't leave you on “read” while you cry silently into a pillow. The other half? Emotional. And relentless. This part of you refuses to let go. It remembers the nights filled with laughter and warmth. It still feels them in your arms. Still hears the so...

  There was a time when I thought I needed closure to heal. When I believed that understanding  why  would somehow quiet the storm in my chest. When I thought if I could just explain how deeply I loved — maybe, just maybe — the pain would feel lighter. But I was wrong. The truth is, some answers never come. Some people leave without explanation. Some love stories end not with a dramatic conclusion, but with silence… and silence is a heavy thing to carry. For a while, that silence swallowed me. Every day felt like waking up inside a memory I didn’t ask to relive. The tiniest things would bring it back — a song, a place, a line from a movie, a date on the calendar. And each time, my mind would jump. My heart would flinch. Like some invisible string kept pulling me back to something already gone. But recently, something shifted. Not overnight — slowly, almost quietly. I started to find comfort in something else. Not in people. Not in distractions. But in  creation ...

  There’s something about breakups no one really talks about— It’s not always about missing the person. Sometimes, it’s about needing them to  know  what they did to you. To  understand  what it cost you to keep loving while being slowly let go. That’s what’s been haunting me the most. It’s not that I want to go back. I just want to be  understood — By the one I gave everything to. I want them to read everything I’ve carried. To feel the weight of the silence. To sit with the truth of how much it took to keep choosing someone who wasn’t choosing me back. Not for pity. Not for revenge. But because I need to believe that what I gave wasn’t invisible. That the pain I kept hidden wasn’t all for nothing. That the time, the love, the loyalty—meant something to both of us. I want them to know how hard I tried. How I forgave things I shouldn't have. How I stayed even when everything inside me was breaking. How I convinced myself that if I just worked harder, s...

  There’s a certain kind of pain that doesn’t announce itself. It just sits quietly in your chest, tightening day after day until you realize you’re the only one still trying. I think that’s how we ended. And before you assume—this isn’t a letter begging for her back. It’s not about regrets. It’s not even about anger. It’s just me, a man, finally putting words to what I’ve carried in silence for too long. We were together for seven years. Seven. Long enough to finish school, build a life, start over—twice. Long enough to know each other's hearts, rhythms, fears… or so I thought. And if you’d asked anyone back then, they’d tell you we were good. Maybe not perfect—but good. I thought we were built for the long haul. I accepted our flaws, I made peace with our differences, and I believed in growth. I believed in  us . But here's the thing: I was the only one evolving. She stopped reflecting. She stopped trying. She started believing our problems were mine alone to fix. No re...