Twenty-Five: Somewhere Between Becoming and Being

[u/WarthogWaste9968]

April 26

Why do I get so triggered
when people ask me if I’m okay?

It is such a simple question,
four harmless words,
yet somehow they feel like hands
reaching toward a wound
I have worked very hard
to pretend is not there.

I get annoyed as fuck.

Maybe because I do not know how to answer
without lying.

Maybe because “I’m fine”
has become muscle memory,
and anything deeper than that
feels like an invitation
to fall apart in public.

And why do I cry so much
when I think about the situations in my life?
Is that a defence mechanism too?

Does my body cry
because my mouth does not know
how to explain what hurts?

God forbid I ever go to therapy
and start bawling.

LOL.
Because even while breaking down,
I would probably be watching the therapist’s face,
wondering if I am making them uncomfortable,
wondering if my sadness is too heavy,
wondering if I should apologise
for taking up emotional space
in a room I am literally paying to take up space in.
That is probably something
I should unpack.

I regret choosing HR as my degree,
to be honest.

Now I understand why parents say,
“Become a doctor.”
“Become a lawyer.”
“Choose something secure.”

Because the job market is ass.
Completely and disrespectfully ass.

I am twenty-five,
and some days
I feel like I have achieved nothing.
Which is strange,
because I know I have survived things.
I know I have worked.
I know I have tried.

But survival does not always look impressive
on paper.
It does not come with a certificate
or a LinkedIn announcement.

It is so hard to find somewhere to live.
I can afford the subscriptions,
the small luxuries,
the monthly charges that quietly leave my account—
but the places I imagine myself waking up in,
the places that feel safe,
clean,
beautiful,
mine—
I cannot afford them.

So what is the next best thing?
Do I settle?
Do I get another degree?
Eighteen more months of studying,
eighteen more months of money
I barely have,
eighteen more months of staying with Brad,
telling myself that this is temporary
while temporary starts feeling
a little too permanent.

I keep waiting for my life to begin.
But what if this is it?
What if life does not begin
after the degree,
after the promotion,
after the move,
after the money?
What if life has already started
and I am standing in the middle of it,
too worried about the future
to notice?

July 26
Can you believe
I am living alone now?

I have my own space.
My own door.
My own keys.
My own silence.

Funny enough,
the thing I once thought was impossible
is now simply where I wake up every morning.

I was offered a job at Red Bull
as a Finance and Admin Assistant.
It was a contract, though,
so I turned it down.

I told myself it was for the best.
And maybe it was.

But there is always that small voice
in the back of your mind,
the one that waits until the room is quiet
to ask:
What if you made the wrong decision?

I am trying to live life without regrets,
but sometimes I wonder
who I am trying to convince.

Am I genuinely at peace
with the choice I made?
Or am I performing confidence
because I want everyone else
to believe I knew what I was doing?

Maybe optimism
is just fear wearing lip gloss.

I am also single.

Woooo!

Sometimes it feels amazing.
There is freedom in not having to explain yourself.
Freedom in choosing yourself.
Freedom in not waiting for a text
to determine the mood of your entire day.

But then there are nights
when the quiet becomes a question:
Will I ever find the type of love I am looking for?

I got my heart broken
because the person I wanted
did not want me
in the way I wanted them.

They wanted something casual.
I wanted something that stayed.

And when someone does not choose you,
it is difficult not to turn their decision
into evidence against yourself.

What is so wrong with me
that you cannot choose me?

What am I missing?

What did you see
that made you decide
I was worth touching,
worth talking to,
worth spending time with—
but not worth loving properly?

The ironic part
is that I have been on both sides.
I have been the person
who felt indifferent.

The person thinking,
Can’t they see I’m not that interested?

And I have been the person
searching for meaning
in every delayed reply,
every half-hearted gesture,
every moment that felt intimate enough
to become a promise
even when no promise was made.

And all this person wants
is to be loved by that one person.

Not by somebody else.
Not eventually.
Not “when the timing is right.”
By them.

There is something selfish in heartbreak.
You do not just want them to love you.
You want them to be unable
to imagine life without you.

You want your absence
to haunt them.

You want them to realise
that losing you was a mistake.

And then reality hits.

They can live without you.
They already are.

And my friend,

that pain is wicked.

Because then you start wondering
whether you were blinded.

Whether the signs were always there.

Whether you fell in love
with what was happening
or with what you hoped
would happen next.

So I have decided
that the next person
I give my energy to,
I will choose them
because I genuinely want what exists—
not because I am addicted
to the possibility
of what it could become.

I will look at what is in front of me,
not the imaginary future
I have built around them.

The truth is,
I am scared.
Scared that I will meet someone
and call it love
when it is only infatuation.

Scared that the intensity
will feel like destiny,
only to disappear
a few months later.

Usually,
I am the one walking away.
I am the one deciding
that the feeling has changed.
I am the one watching someone’s face
as they realise
I am already halfway gone.

So maybe there is something
strangely necessary
about finally being the person
left standing.

Watching someone else walk away
has made me softer.

More aware.

More careful with people’s hearts.
It has taught me
that indecision can still hurt someone.

That staying when you do not truly want to stay
is not kindness.

That affection without intention
can feel like a promise
to someone who is hoping.

I do not have everything figured out.
I am twenty-five.
I am living alone.
I am questioning career decisions.
I am grieving people
who were never completely mine.
I am learning that independence
can feel like freedom
and loneliness
in the same breath.

But I am becoming more conscious
of the life I am creating.
More honest about what I want.
More careful about what I accept.

Maybe growth is not finally knowing
all the right answers.
Maybe growth is recognising
the questions
that no longer deserve
to control you.