Penny's World

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  • Muse, Unmade

    I suppose this is my last letter to you — or maybe to the idea of you. The version that only ever existed in the soft corners of my mind, painted in half-truths and the kind of hope that should have known better.

    You see, I didn’t fall in love with you. I fell in love with the fragments I assembled when you weren’t looking — the fleeting moments where you almost looked kind, the words that sounded like warmth until they turned to smoke. I built you from the best pieces of my imagination, stitched them with what I wished love could feel like, and then had the audacity to call it real.

    You were never mine. Maybe you were never anyone’s — only ever the kind of person who loved being loved. You wore attention like a crown and fed off affection as if it was proof of power. I was naive enough to mistake your hunger for depth, your cruelty for carelessness, your indifference for mystery.

    I know now that I was the joke you told to your friends. That the moments I replayed in my head, the ones that felt cinematic, were nothing more than your temporary boredom. It used to sting — the thought that I had become an anecdote, a story told over drinks, with laughter filling the space where my sincerity once lived.

    But here’s the thing — you only get to laugh if I still care. And I think I’ve reached the part where your voice stops echoing. Where your name doesn’t feel like a wound anymore.

    You once told me that I made things too heavy, that I felt too much, that I was too easy. Maybe that was true. But I’d rather feel everything than live half-alive, mistaking manipulation for charm. I used to think love was something to earn — now I know it’s something that should never have required convincing.

    Some nights, I still catch myself missing you — or what I thought you were. Then I remind myself: you were never that person. You only played the part long enough for me to believe. And I, foolishly, kept the script long after you walked off stage.

    If you ever think of me — and maybe you won’t — I hope you remember someone who loved you when you didn’t deserve it. Someone who meant every word. Someone you couldn’t break completely, no matter how hard you tried.

    You were a storm I mistook for the sea — vast, consuming, but never meant to stay.

    And so, I’ll leave you here, in this letter. I’ll leave the ache, the questions, the what-ifs, and every version of me that tried to be enough for you. I’ll let you live on only as a story — a necessary one, but no longer mine to tell.

    You’ll remain a chapter — the one that taught me that love without truth is nothing more than illusion.

    So here’s to you, my favourite muse — not because you inspired beauty, but because you made me write my way back to myself.

    And as I walk away now, lighter than I’ve ever been, I realise closure isn’t something you give — it’s something I choose. You can keep your laughter, your lies, your version of me that fits your narrative. I’ll keep my peace. You were once the noise I mistook for music, but I’ve found a quieter song now — one that doesn’t end in ache.

    — Not yours anymore

  • Softly, Again

    didn’t think I’d do this again—
    fall into something
    that feels like spring sunlight after too many winters.

    you appeared,
    not with thunder or poetry,
    just with kindness that didn’t demand to be noticed.

    and suddenly,
    the air felt different—
    lighter somehow,
    as if I’d been holding my breath for years
    and didn’t know it.

    I don’t have to shrink my laugh around you,
    don’t have to translate my heart into smaller words.
    you listen,
    and that feels new.
    no games,
    no shadows—
    just the quiet thrill
    of being understood.

    maybe it’s not love,
    not yet.
    but it feels like walking toward light
    without fearing the fall.

    and if this is what healing sounds like—
    soft,
    steady,
    uncomplicated—
    then maybe falling
    doesn’t have to hurt this time.

  • The Last Meeting

    It’s a random Friday afternoon, and “Phiriye Dewar Gaan” hums faintly from my phone — soft, almost hesitant, like it knows it’s trespassing into old memories. I let it play anyway. Music has a way of finding the ghosts we’ve learned to live with. And just like that, I’m back in March of this year.

    You were the breath of fresh air my heart had been craving for without knowing it. The kind that fills the lungs too suddenly, makes the chest ache a little, and yet feels like survival. You arrived without warning — no build-up, no grand beginning. Just a quiet entry into my world, and somehow, everything after that felt different.

    I still remember how it started — how your name lit up my phone screen for the first time, how ordinary that moment was, and how it would later hold extraordinary weight. We talked about small things at first: the weather, favorite songs, movies that felt like memories. And then, before I knew it, you had slipped past the guarded edges of my heart, making yourself at home in its unlit corners.

    It wasn’t dramatic — it was gentle, like sunlight seeping in through curtains. I wished for us to last, you know? I really did. I wanted us to survive the shifting seasons, the uncertainties, the inevitable distances. I pictured us in all the tomorrows I hadn’t lived yet. I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, some stories don’t have to end.

    But life — or fate, or timing, or whatever name we give the cruel poetry of it all — had other plans.

    I think about that last meeting often. It’s strange how you never really know it’s the last one until much later. You walk into it thinking there will be more — more conversations, more laughter, more days that begin with your name and end with your voice. You don’t realize you’re standing in the final scene until the credits start to roll in hindsight and the director shouts “CUT!”

    That day, I remember, the sky was undecided — half cloudy, half sunlit, like it couldn’t choose between holding on or letting go. We met as we always did- all our friends around us, easily, naturally. I remember your smile — not the bright, carefree one, but the softer one, tinged with something I didn’t have the courage to name. We spoke like everything was normal, like we weren’t already fading. And maybe that’s what made it harder.

    I didn’t know that it was the last time I’d hear your voice the way I knew it then. I didn’t know it would be the last time your name would feel warm on my tongue, before it turned into a quiet ache I’d carry silently. I didn’t know it was the last time you’d look at me and see us– and not two people who were no longer reading the same book. Not a person who was too much for you. Not a person who was easy to let go, and easier to forget.

    And yet, the universe, in all its irony, decided that my birthday would be the last day our worlds touched. I sometimes think about that — how the day meant for beginnings became an ending – in itself. I don’t know how it happened — how our laughter turned to distance, how comfort turned to silence. But there it is: my birthday, frozen in time as the day I unknowingly said goodbye to someone I was still wishing to meet again.

    There are nights when I replay our story like a reel — fragments of conversations, laughter echoing through late hours, words that now feel too tender to touch. You live in me like that — as a montage of the polaroid pictures we never took. The almosts, the nearlys, the could-have-beens. If I close my eyes, I can still see them — blurry snapshots of a love that never found its way into permanence. A love that only lived in my mind and not yours.

    Sometimes, I wonder if you remember me too — not as a person, maybe, but as a feeling. A fleeting comfort. A familiar tune that plays unexpectedly and pulls you back for a second before fading into background noise. I wonder if certain songs still remind you of the me you let slip through.

    It’s funny, isn’t it? How something that felt infinite can shrink into memory, into something you carry like an old ticket stub from a concert that once changed you. I don’t hate it anymore — the ending, the silence, the distance. I’ve made peace with it. Some stories aren’t meant to last; they’re meant to move you. To make you see yourself differently.

    You will always live in me — not as a wound, but as a quiet part of my becoming. You were the reminder that I could feel deeply, that I could still be undone by beauty. You were the fleeting season that made everything else pale in comparison.

    So here I am, months later, on a random Friday, with that same song playing — not to mourn, but to remember. To smile at the memory of us, blurry and unfinished, but real.

    Because maybe that’s all love really is — a series of beautiful moments, stitched together by the ache of knowing they can’t last. And you, you will always be my favorite unfinished story.

    Somewhere, in a parallel universe, maybe we did take those polaroids.
    Maybe we stayed.
    But here, in this one, I’ll keep you as you are — a soft blur of laughter, light, and the faint echo of “Phiriye Dewar Gaan” on a random Friday afternoon.

  • The Final Scene

    And CUT! 

    You’re gone now—vanished, exiled from my world.
    And I’m gone too—no longer naming myself as someone who ever belonged to yours.
    Yet somehow you linger, a burn mark I cannot scrub from my skin.

    You kissed my forehead as though you couldn’t see a world beyond me.
    You kissed my neck—playfully, I thought then—like my scent was the only thing that mattered in that neon-lit crowd.
    You held my hand as though letting it go would be letting life slip through your fingers.

    And still, after all that, you tell me you did not feel it too?
    Then lie—
    Lie if you must to keep your peace,
    Lie if you must to sleep at night,
    Lie if you must to forget.

    I unshackle you from my love.
    I unshackle you from every gift, every piece of myself I pressed into your palms.
    I unshackle you from me.

    I break the chain of my love.
    I take back what I gave, piece by piece,
    until your hands are empty again.

    I leave you nothing of me to hold,
    no trace to follow back.

    And so, my love, this is the final scene,
    the curtain call of my loving you.

  • Dear You

    This is the hundredth time I’ve promised myself—
    the hundredth time I’ve said this will be the last piece about you.
    And still, here I am,
    pen trembling, dragging your ghost into the margins of another night.
    How did it all crumble this fast?
    Why did you look like forever
    when you were always meant to be a moment?
    Why did you resemble love so closely
    when you were never supposed to be the love for me?
    I circle these questions like a prayer wheel,
    as if turning them over might summon an answer.
    But all I find is silence—
    the kind that bruises louder than words ever could.
    They say repetition dulls the ache,
    but each time I write you, it cuts deeper,
    like breaking the same bone again and again.
    Maybe I keep writing because I’m afraid—
    afraid that if I stop,
    you’ll vanish completely,
    and then what would all this hurt have been for?
    So this is the hundredth time,
    the thousandth time—
    me, trying to turn you into words
    when all you ever left me with
    was silence.

  • You Made This Place Unholy

    Love was once here. Love was once mine.

    From loving you to regretting you all the time—
    life’s been a circus, never a climb.
    So yeah, there’s no poetic way to sign off—
    just one clean line: fuck off.

    You’re gone, yet somehow you stay,
    haunting my house in your own decay.
    Your laughter rots in the cracks of the floor,
    your shadow still seeps beneath my door.

    The bed holds the weight of your filthy lies,
    the mirror still shows the ghost in my eyes.
    You left my walls soaked in mildew and shame,
    every silence whispers your venomous name.

    But hear me now—I spit you out,
    your haunting ends with this final shout.
    This curse you cast will circle back,
    cling to your chest, and paint you black.

    So when the night moans and shadows creep,
    remember—it’s your soul that’s mine to keep.
    My house will heal, my heart will rise,
    but you’ll rot forever in your own demise.

    I evict you from this heart. The door you slammed won’t open for you again. 

  • Goodbye, quietly…

    No, you never built the fire
    That could keep me warm like you said,
    But you sure as hell lit the flames
    That left Lover House burned, love dead.

    You painted daydreams in August,
    Only to let them slip through your hands,
    A cardigan left in the corner,
    While you chased castles made of sand.

    You swore forever like scripture,
    But your vows were smoke in the air.
    I was a mirrorball breaking—
    You barely noticed I was there.

    You were the archer, unsteady,
    And I was the mark you betrayed.
    Now folklore forests remind me
    How fairytales quietly fade.

    So when I hear our songs now,
    They sound like a cruel disguise—
    You promised me sparks and daylight,
    But all I got were ashes and lies.

    Let me know your thoughts

  • The Girl Before “The One”

    I heard the news—you’ve found your star,
    a guiding light, a heart to spar.
    In two years’ time, with vows begun,
    you’ll stand beside her, call her “the one.”

    And still I linger in the shade,
    the fleeting dream, the part love played.
    Not yours to keep, but yours to know,
    a fire that burned, then let you go.

    Like Taylor wrote in words undone,
    “I was the girl before the one.”
    The fragile bridge you crossed with care,
    to find a world beyond me there.

    I held your nights, your fragile fears,
    the weight of silence, uncried tears.
    I loved you raw, without pretense,
    and paid the price of innocence.

    It breaks, this heart, yet still it sings,
    of fleeting loves and broken wings.
    For though I’ll never wear your name,
    I’ll always be the spark, the flame.

    And when your story’s fully spun,
    you may remember where it’s from—
    the aching start, the songs begun…
    I was the girl before “the one.”

    Hey look, love was once here……you were once mine…all mine :”)

  • Paper Thin Forever

    I fell in love—
    slowly,
    then all at once.

    I let go of someone
    who loved me enough
    to move heaven and earth
    just to keep me from crying.

    Someone who held me,
    apologized with his eyes,
    and carried the weight of my hurt
    as if it were his own.

    But I let him go—
    for the hundred things he didn’t do,
    for the sweetness of your words
    that felt like promises.

    And so, I fell—
    slowly,
    then all at once.

    You became the echo in my days,
    the reflection I swore was mine.
    You felt like me
    in another body,
    the same soul
    wearing different skin.

    Life turned into a song,
    bright and careless—
    a Taylor Swift melody
    spun with hope.

    Naïve,
    I told you that on that taxi ride back home.

    I fell for you—
    and you left.
    Or maybe you were never here at all,
    only an illusion
    my love-starved heart
    painted into being.

    And maybe the blame is mine—
    for trusting words
    you never meant,
    for trading someone
    who made life feel easy
    for the echo of someone
    who was never real.

    Now I carry it with me—
    this fragile truth,
    this paper thin forever
    that scattered like ash
    when I tried to hold it.

  • Hoping My Way Out of You

    I hope I can finally fall in love with your absence.

    I hope I don’t love you anymore.

    I`hope it’s bright and sunny in your part of the city,

    and that you left the illusion of “us” long ago.

    I hope I can do the same. Someday. Soon.

    I hope your name no longer tightens my chest.

    I hope I stop looking for you in the corners of cafes

    and the shadows of places we once knew.

    I hope I stop writing you letters on the back pages of my diary —

    and lose the urge to tear out those love-soaked confessions.

    I hope I don’t crumble in the cereal aisle

    because the world still feels too full of you.

    I hope I find the strength to let you go.

    I hope I stop remembering the sound of your voice

    in the quiet hours before sleep.

    I hope I no longer dream of the version of you

    who might have stayed.

    I hope I forget the way your laughter

    once felt like sunlight breaking through rain.

    I hope we never stumble upon each other again—

    and hope love finds you, in all its wild glory,

    without me ever having to hear about it.

    And maybe, one day,

    I’ll hope for nothing at all.

    I believe this is what healing must look like- not forgetting, not replacing, not erasing, but reaching the place where hope no longer needs your name to exist.

    Let me know your thoughts