Hey there, fellow wanderers of the web! Step into my cyber realm, where I spill the deets myself and my interests. This blog is a digital diary, except not so personal that it is not filled with pictures, quotes and music videos of course!
you said you'd bring me roses
but left me with thorns.
i wore perfume for nothing -
love always ends in war.
your name tastes like wine now,
sweet,
then bitter.
i miss what you weren’t.
louie, you were the song i should’ve skipped.
pretty beat, empty words.
i let you play
too long.
I sit and listen. That’s the role I’ve learned best. I keep quiet in corners, tuck myself into the silence between your words. My fingers move without thinking now, polishing plates until they gleam and glisten, like maybe if I scrub hard enough, I’ll rub away the tension in the air. I walk carefully through this house, each step measured, light. Long hair is falling down my shoulders, so I put it up.
You’re so much older. So much wiser. You speak with certainty, and people believe you. I wait by the door, like I’m still six years old with muddy shoes, waiting to be let in. Like growing up never really granted me entry.
I’ve got my own things. Quiet problems that sit with me at night, tucked in between the lists I write in my head; what needs doing, who needs watching, what mood you’re in today. I don’t ask for much. Still, I do what I can. I lay the table with the fancy shit—plates we never use, cloth napkins we don’t need, wine glasses even when there’s no wine. It’s not for me. It’s never been for me. I do it to make things smoother, easier, quieter. For you. For them. As long as I live under this roof, I’ll try to hold up the corners of it.
If it’s all in my head, this aching, this trying, tell me. Tell me I’ve got it wrong. I know it should be different. But you? You just tolerate it. The plates are clean now. The table’s perfect. The candles flicker like you like. The picture of Jesus on the wall is dust free. I glance once more at the room, at the people I love more than they’ll ever understand. Then I slip on my shoes.
I don’t slam the door. I never do.
The evening air is soft against my skin. I let my hair fall loose, tug the tie from it as I step off the porch and into the quiet hush of the street. Boys message me. They always do. Sweet words, flirtations, invitations I never accept. They get bored quickly, or maybe I do. I replace them easily, like songs I used to like but can’t listen to anymore. But one boy stays.
We message every day lately. We went to school together five years ago. I used to watch him out of the corner of my eye, the football boy who lives next door to me. I would look right into his room and send playful messages. I wrote poems about him in my diary before I moved away and we started different schools. Yet, we still have contact. I can't replace him when I keep recalling things we never did, like hugging him on the football field after a win. We have already done everything in my head, but I must lock that part of myself like the diary with poems. Under my bed, with the key in the back of my closet. I have other things to take care of.
The screen of my phone glows softly in the growing dark. A message. His name.
"You know, I used to love you back then."
That’s all it says. I stop walking.
The wind tugs gently at the edges of my coat. My fingers tighten around the phone. There’s nothing around me but the sound of my own breathing, and somewhere in the distance, a car door closing. I stand there, still and quiet, like I’ve done all my life, but this stillness feels different. For a moment, just one, I let the thought live: what if he meant it?
What if I wrote back?
But I don’t move, not yet. I just let the words echo in my mind. And then I smile, small, secret, like something’s finally beginning.
Inspired by Tolerate It and Guilty As Sin, both songs by Taylor Swift.
I wanna fly, I wanna fly, I wanna fly...
Boy, you wanna come to my motel, honey? Boy, you wanna hold me down, tell me that you love me? Don't you know that I have really never loved nobody but you? Boy, you wanna come to my motel, honey? Boy, you wanna hold me down, tell me that you love me? Don't you know that I have really never loved nobody but you?
I wanna fly, I wanna fly, I wanna fly...
I can't be with the man I love. I can't be, if he treats me rough. I can't see him, I can't call him up
I wanna fly, I wanna fly, I wanna fly...
Two days later, and my whole world feels like it's tilted a little, just enough to make everything look new and sparkly. Louie asked me on a date. My first date. Ever.
I swear, my heart did this weird fluttery thing when he said it. We were just texting, talking about some random song that reminded him of summer, when he casually asked, “Would you want to go out sometime?”
And I just stared at the screen like it was a trap or a dream or both. My fingers froze. My brain went quiet. But my heart? My heart was screaming. I said yes. Of course I said yes. And then… THEN he asked me what flowers I liked. Just out of nowhere, like it was the most normal thing to ask a girl. I told him roses and lilies. I almost said “you don’t have to get me anything” but I didn’t. Because maybe it’s okay to want pretty things. I am a north-eastern European girl after all, nobody says no to flowers on a first date! It is very important actually, now that I think of it...
I’ve never been on a real date before. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to wear. Or say. Or do. My mind keeps jumping from outfit ideas to panic spirals and back. Like—what if I say something awkward? What if I trip on literally nothing (again)? What if my hands are too cold when he holds them? But also… what if it’s amazing?
What if we laugh too much and the time goes too fast? What if I catch him looking at me like I’m something special, and I actually believe it?
My parents haven’t said anything yet, but I know they know. They keep giving each other that look—the “she’s growing up” look. The “do we need to talk to her about boys?” look. I want to tell them, but also… I don’t. Not yet. This little world Louie and I have built feels fragile and secret and sweet. Like it lives between songs and text messages and late-night thoughts, and I don’t want anything to mess with it.
So I have started listening to Taylor Swift again. "I've got my money on things goin' badly. Got a history of stories ending sadly. Still hoping that the fire won't burn me just one time, just one time. All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life! Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life. And I want you now, wanna need you forever!"
This might be just a small thing. One date. A maybe. A beginning that could end. But right now? It feels like a movie. It feels like soft petals and stolen glances. It feels like the first page of something I’ll want to read over and over again. Wish me luck. 💐✨
xoxo
Lenna
You know that weird feeling when you finally get something you’ve been hoping for, like really wanting for a long time, and then once it’s in your hands, your heart just feels… slow? Not ungrateful, not unhappy. Just… tired?
That’s where I am right now.
I met this boy. His name is Louie (I love the name Louie, it's soft and rare, like a secret nickname you’d write in cursive with glitter pens all over your diary). He’s Christian and half South American. He listens to old rap, the kind that doesn’t feel old to me, even if it technically is. A$AP Rocky. Frank Ocean. Stuff that sounds like driving with the windows down, or staying up way too late in your room with headphones on, pretending you're in a movie.
He’s the same age as me. Fifteen. He doesn’t talk to me like I’m just a body. Not like the other guys, who act like girls are only interesting when they post mirror pics or say something spicy. Louie actually listens. Like really listens. We talk about music and movies and school. I told him I like sad songs more than happy ones and he said he does too, because they last longer.
Sometimes I catch myself smiling at my screen like I’m in a Disney Channel original movie. You know, the old ones with the sparkly fonts and low-res flip phones? And yet… I still feel this knot in my chest.
Because here’s the thing: I should be happy.
I have what I wanted, a boy who sees me, not just the idea of me. And still, my heart is tired. Not because of him, but because of everything. Life has been a lot lately. School is draining, home is loud, my brain is always buzzing. And I think… I think I’m afraid.
Afraid he’ll get tired of talking to me.
Afraid I’ll be too boring, too complicated, too quiet when I don’t know what to say. I’m scared that one day he’ll stop replying as fast, or that I’ll be the only one sending long messages while his replies shrink into one-liners and emojis.
I’m scared of how my parents look at me when they see I’m texting him. That weird stare that lasts a second too long, like they’re trying to read my mind. Like they remember being my age and are wondering if I’m going to fall too hard, too fast.
And maybe I already have.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe falling a little bit is part of growing up. Maybe it’s okay to be soft, even when you’re scared. Maybe tired hearts can still love fully.
The song he likes to send me the most is Love Is Only A Feeling by Joey Badass. The lyrics are meant for me, he says; "Look, I love her curves but what's more preferred is the way she articulates words. Can't help observe and stare when she in the mirror. Maskin' the massacre while she fixing her hair. I mean she so perfect in her own little world. We built the foundation, everything I want in a girl. And it's a matter of time until her last name mine. You got potential baby, just imagine us combined. I wanna see you shine like the gem that you are. Want you be so secure that they see from afar that you don't need another man. And you can stand on your own, just keep stacking your bread, and one day we gonna get gone. And get, away from here. You're the only reason I'd be, staying here. Wanna paint a picture, let's make it clear. The future so bright baby..."
We joke about how much I listen to Lana Del Rey. I don’t know what this is yet. I don’t know if it’ll last. But I do know that when I hear “Lost” by Frank Ocean, I think of our conversations. And when I look at the moon out my bedroom window, I kinda hope he’s looking at it too. Anyway, if you’re reading this… I hope you find someone who talks to you like your words matter. I hope you’re gentle with your tired heart. I hope you know you’re allowed to feel everything, even when it’s all at once.
xoxo
Lenna
