10/7/2025
An undated journal entry – written on a sunless morning
from someone who was never chosen
Today, I woke up with a sense of loss…
Though I couldn’t tell what exactly I had lost.
All I knew was that I felt unbearably sad.
As if my soul had been covered in thick, gray dust. Heavy, still, and quiet to the point of suffocating.
I had a dream.
In that dream, I loved someone.
Loved them so deeply it felt like my soul had entwined itself with theirs. Gently, foolishly, and desperately.
I don’t remember who they were. I can’t recall their face.
All I remember… is that I held them close.
So close.
And when I finally realized I was only holding a lifeless mannequin, I felt like I could crumble into dust.
They weren’t real.
They had never looked back at me. Never once placed me in their world.
And the worst part... is that I knew all along.
But I still loved.
Still held on.
Still believed.
As if, if I hurt long enough, my love would somehow become real.
As if loving them hard enough could make them visible.
But no.
I am still the one who was never chosen.
Not in the dream.
Not in reality.
Not anywhere.
I am always the third person in my own story.
The one who watches.
The one who holds a ghost.
The one who falls for a version that wasn’t made for them
a version unknowingly shaped,
and yet… I accepted it like a gift I wasn’t meant to receive.
My crush… they have someone now.
I know that. Plainly. Clearly. Undeniably.
But why does that truth hurt more than any dream I’ve ever had?
Maybe the deepest wound isn’t that they didn’t choose me.
Maybe it’s the fact that they never even thought of me.
I wasn’t significant enough to be rejected.
I was just… something blurred at the edges of the world where happy people live.
Like the hazy backdrop in a photo of the two of them.
Like the stifled sob behind their carefree laughter.
Like the shadow no one notices.
I was never chosen.
And today, I say it out loud.
Not to blame anyone.
Just... to finally exhale this sadness that has lived quietly inside me for far too long.
I no longer cry.
But that doesn’t mean I’m okay.
I’ve pulled myself together. Yes, I have.
I’ve started cleaning my room. I try to sleep earlier, drink more water, avoid looking at their photos.
I’m learning how to love myself. Doing skincare, burying myself in books like doing so will erase their shadow from my mind.
I’ve stopped whispering their name in my head whenever I see something lovely.
Stopped wondering, “what if”, “if only”, “maybe…”
I’ve begun to live… as if I never loved them.
But the truth is… I still do.
I’ve just learned how to hide it better.
I don’t let anyone see the way my chest tightens when a familiar song plays.
I don’t talk about them anymore. Not because I’ve forgotten,
but because I know that saying their name out loud might make the wound bleed again.
I no longer dream of hugging mannequins.
But I still wake up with an unnamed emptiness sitting in my chest.
It seems I’m slowly becoming someone new.
Stronger. Quieter. Less romantic.
It also feels like I’ve let a part of myself die
...the part that used to wait for a single glance,
the part that once believed in fragile love.
I don’t know if this is what people call “growing up.”
All I know is… it hurts.
It hurts like cutting a piece of my own soul out just to keep going.
I don’t resent them.
I’ve never once hated them.
I only regret… loving in silence for far too long,
and never being a part of the story they were writing.
But I will keep going.
I no longer believe that love will save me,
…but I believe I can save myself.
One day, I’ll forget their face.
But I’ll remember that I once loved.
That I once ached.
That I once stood up from the ruins of my own heart
…and no one even noticed.
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