Absquatulate: The Word for When People Leave Without Saying Goodbye

I found this word by accident, on one of those "weird words in the English dictionary" lists you fall into at 1 a.m. when you should be asleep. 

Absquatulate. Verb. To leave suddenly, hurriedly, without warning. Old American slang from the 1830s, half-joking even back then - the kind of word cowboys and con men used when someone skipped town in the night. 

I read the definition twice. Then I sat with it for a long time, because I realised I've been absquatulated on more times than I can count. And I've probably done it to a few people myself, if I am honest. 

It's not always about running from debt

The word was born out of people literally fleeing - usually owing someone money. But strip away the 1830s context and what's left is something much more ordinary and much more human: someone was there, and then they weren't. No conversation. No closure. Just an absence where a person used to be. 

My best friend absquatulated out of my life over a WhatsApp read receipt. We'd talk every single day for God knows how long - dumb memes, 2 a.m. venting, the works. Then one message just sat there. Blue ticks, no reply. I told myself she was busy. Weeks became months. I still don't fully know what happened. Somewhere in there, a friendship just left. 

It's a strange kind of grief, because nobody died and nothing was technically ended. It just stopped, the way a song cuts off mid-note when the power goes out. 

We do it to places too 

My childhood home was stripped down before selling recently. I was travelling for work and told my mother I'd visit "next time I'm in town." There was always a next time, until there wasn't. I never got to walk through those rooms one last time, never got to sit on the verandah where I had some of my fondest memories. The house absquatulated on me before I even knew to say goodbye to it. 

I think about that verandah more than I think about most people I've lost touch with. 

And sometimes we do it to ourselves too 

Here's the part I don't love admitting: I've absquatulated too. There was a job that I hated so much that I gave my resignation notice by email and then quietly stopped showing up at celebratory events, ignoring the "we should grab farewell coffee" messages from colleagues who'd genuinely been kind to me. I told myself I was protecting my peace. Looking back, I think I was just avoiding the discomfort of an actual goodbye—the awkward hug, the "keep in touch" that we both knew was a lie, the finality of it. 

Leaving quietly felt easier in the moment. It wasn't, really. It just moved the discomfort onto someone else, or postponed it for me. 

Why the leaving hurts more than the loss 

Psychologists sometimes call this "ambiguous loss" — grief without a clear ending, loss without a body, a funeral, or an explanation to hang it on. Your brain doesn't know where to file it. There's no full stop, just a sentence that trails off. 

That's the real sting of being absquatulated on. It's not usually the absence itself. It's the unfinished sentence. The version of the story where you never get to say the last thing, or hear it. 

What I've made peace with 

I don't think everyone who absquatulates is a bad person. Sometimes people leave suddenly because staying to explain themselves feels impossible — because they're ashamed, or overwhelmed, or simply don't have the words yet, and maybe never will. That doesn't make it hurt any less. But it helps me stop rewriting the ending in my head, searching for the one flaw in myself that must have caused it. 

Some doors just close from the other side, and we don't get to know why. 

What's helped me more than answers is this: writing my own version of the goodbye, even when the other person never showed up for theirs. A letter I never send. A quiet "thank you for the years of friendship" I say out loud to an empty room. It doesn't fix anything. But it gives the sentence a period, even if I am the only one who put it there. 

If someone has absquatulated out of your life — a friend, a partner, a parent, a place you loved — you're allowed to grieve something that never technically ended. You're allowed to miss a goodbye you were never given. 

And if you're the one who's done the leaving, quietly, without a word — it's not too late to write the ending you skipped. Even a late goodbye is still a goodbye. 

First Cat Theory: Why Your First Cat Finds You When You Need It Most

There's a quiet idea on the internet called the "First Cat Theory" - the belief that your first cat comes into your life at exactly the moment you need it the most. And if you have ever experienced it, you know...it doesn't feel like a coincidence. 

There's a strange belief people have about first pets - that you chose them. But if you have ever had a "first cat", you know that's not entirely true. 

They choose you. 

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. There’s no background music, no grand moment of realisation. It’s quieter than that. Almost forgettable if you’re not paying attention. They just… show up. Sit a little closer than expected. Stay a little longer than they’re supposed to. And before you realise it, they’ve made space for themselves in parts of your life you didn’t even know were empty.

I think the “first cat” finds you at a time when you need something you can’t quite name.

It’s not always loneliness.

Not always sadness.

Sometimes, it’s just a pause—a phase where everything is functioning, everything looks fine, but something within you feels slightly… unheld.

And then they arrive.

No expectations. No questions. No complicated conversations. Just presence.

And somehow, that’s enough.

Your first cat teaches you a kind of connection that isn’t taught or structured. There’s no manual, no right way to do it. You learn through moments—scratched hands that still reach out again, quiet evenings that feel less heavy, the soft, rhythmic comfort of them simply existing next to you.

And somewhere along the way, without making a big announcement about it, they change you.

If I look back, my first cat didn’t just enter my life—it shifted something in me.

It softened me in ways I didn’t realise I needed.

It slowed me down in the middle of days that were always moving.

It gave me a form of comfort that didn’t require me to explain myself.

And for someone who spends so much time analysing emotions, understanding people, holding space for others—this kind of uncomplicated presence felt unfamiliar at first.

But also… deeply healing.

There’s something else about a first cat that we don’t talk about enough.

You don’t just remember the cat. You remember who brought them into your life. Not just as a person, but as a feeling tied to that moment. 

Because sometimes, the cat isn’t the only gift.

Sometimes, it’s the person who saw a version of you that needed that kind of companionship… even before you could articulate it yourself. And I think that deserves its own quiet kind of gratitude.

Not something loud or performative. Not something that needs to be posted or announced. Just a soft acknowledgement you carry within yourself:

Thank you for bringing something into my life that I didn’t know I was waiting for.

Because a first cat isn’t just about becoming a pet parent.

It’s about becoming softer, without realising when it happened. It’s about learning that presence can be more comforting than words. It’s about discovering that love doesn’t always arrive in expected forms—it can walk in on four paws, completely uninvited, and still feel like exactly what you needed.

And even if life moves forward, even if more pets come, more attachments form, more versions of you exist—

That first one stays different.

Not because you love the others any less.

But because the first one met you in a version of yourself that no longer exists.

And maybe that’s why it stays.

Seasonal Souls: Honoring The Ones Who Changed Us Briefly

There are some people you meet who don’t arrive loudly.  They slip into your life on an ordinary day—through work, a shared project, a mutual friend, or even a random message—and you don’t realise, at first, how deeply they will rearrange your inner furniture. You just notice that you breathe a little easier around them. At first, you assume they’re here to stay. You make quiet plans in your head without even calling them “plans.” You imagine future conversations, trips, shared worries, silly arguments, late-night or early morning calls. 

You imagine a long, slow relationship—whether as a friend, colleague, partner, or something in-between that you don’t yet have words for.

And then life does what life always does.

It reminds you that some people are not meant to be part of your entire story. They are meant for one luminous chapter, one short season, one specific stretch of your journey.

That ache—the one you feel when this truth finally settles—is what I call "lunareth". It is that strange mix of gratitude and grief when you recognise: You were meant for my life… but not for my life as a whole.

Most of us grow up on a steady diet of “forever”: forever friends, forever love, forever promises. We are taught to look for people who will stay, who will witness our entire arc from beginning to end. And yes, those relationships exist. But they are fewer than we like to admit.

The reality is that much of our emotional life is seasonal. 

You meet someone at 23 who fits perfectly with who you are at 23—but not with who you will become at 30. You connect with a colleague during a difficult project; you share jokes, frustrations, and chai in the break room, feeling like you’ve found a rare understanding. Then one of you changes jobs, or moves cities, or simply grows in a different direction.

Sometimes nothing dramatic happens. No betrayal. No fight. Just timing.

That’s what makes Lunareth so quietly cruel. There is no villain to blame. The relationship didn’t “fail” in the usual sense. It simply completed its purpose. 

As someone who works with human stories and inner worlds, I see this pattern again and again. People don’t only grieve breakups; they grieve timing. They grieve the version of themselves that existed only with that one person. They grieve “what could have been” if life had been softer, kinder, or slower.

When you look back, you realise that these seasonal people did something very specific: they shifted your inner landscape. Maybe they were the first person who really listened when you were on the edge of burnout. Maybe they made you laugh at a time when you had forgotten what your own laugh sounded like. Maybe they introduced you to a book, a song, a city, or a way of thinking that quietly altered the course of your life.

Sometimes, they showed you how you deserve to be treated.

Sometimes, uncomfortably, they showed you where you still needed to grow.

In my own life, I can see faces attached to distinct emotional lessons. A friend who taught me how to set boundaries. A colleague who modelled what it looks like to care deeply without burning out. Someone who came into my world briefly and reminded me that I am more than my professional role—that I am also a person who can want, hope, and dream.

None of them stayed forever. But each left something behind.

It’s tempting to see their departure as a kind of failure: If it mattered, it should have lasted. But that’s not always true. Not every important person is meant to be permanent. Some are meant to be catalytic.

There’s a difficult skill we don’t talk about enough: knowing when a relationship has completed its chapter, even if your heart wants more pages.

Lunareth is the ache you feel when you sense the goodbye before it is spoken. You notice responses getting shorter. Plans are becoming harder to align. Emotional distance is growing where intimacy once felt easy. You tell yourself it’s just a busy phase, that things will return to normal. Sometimes they do. Often, they don’t.

Accepting this doesn’t mean you stop loving or caring. It doesn’t mean you erase memories or pretend it never mattered. It simply means you stop forcing a shape that no longer fits.

You can love someone deeply and still acknowledge that our timelines no longer match, our paths are moving in different directions, and the version of me that met you has changed, and so have you. 

Acceptance here is not cold. It is honest. It allows you to honor what you shared without turning it into a lifelong contract neither of you can fulfil.

If you look at your life as a series of seasons instead of one long, continuous line, something softens. You can begin to say:

- You were my person for that winter when everything felt uncertain.

- You were my anchor during that chaotic job.

- You were my mirror when I needed to see myself clearly.

- You were my teacher in the language of boundaries, tenderness, or courage.

They did not stay for all your seasons. But in that one specific season, they mattered completely.

Lunareth is the quiet, heavy gratitude that comes when you think of them. You feel the ache, yes—but also a deep thankfulness that, for a little while, the universe crossed your path. That, for a brief chapter, you were each other’s “meant to be,” even if you were never destined to be “forever.”

The most healing way to hold these seasonal people is to carry forward what they awakened in you, instead of clinging to the shape they once held in your life. Maybe they reminded you that you are capable of connection, even after betrayal. Maybe they showed you that you can be seen and still be safe. Maybe they called out a strength in you that you now refuse to forget.

You don’t have to forget them to move on. You also don’t have to drag them into chapters where they no longer belong. 

You simply let Lunareth sit beside you—this tender ache that says: You were meant for my life. Not for all of it, but for one bright, irreplaceable season. And that is enough.

Attachment: The Wonderfully Terrible Truth About Human Connection and the Psychology of Letting Go

It starts quietly.

You meet someone's eyes a little longer than usual. You sit on the same park bench every evening. You hear a song, and it settles in the corner of your mind like it has always belonged there. 

At first, it's nothing. Just a repeated moment, an everyday rhythm. 

But repetition is a sly architect — it builds bridges in your brain without asking for permission. One day, you notice the bridge is no longer just a path; it's the way home. 

That's emotional attachment. It's the thing that can make an empty chair feel heavy. It's the thing that makes rain smell different when someone you love is standing beside you. 

It is, without exaggeration, wonderfully terrible. 

Every attachment begins as a habit — and habits are powerful psychological patterns. 

It's the coffee you drink every morning from the same cup, the text you send before bed, the way you hum while chopping vegetables. Do something often enough, and the brain starts to expect it — not because it's essential, but because it has become yours. 

With people, it's even subtler. You wave at your neighbour every morning. You always sit beside the same colleague during lunch breaks. You wake up with your phone ringing with someone's call. A child falls asleep to the same bedtime story. The brain notices these small repetitions, and the neurons say, "Ah, this again. I like it."

In the psychology of relationships, expectation is the seed of attachment. 

From a neuroscience and psychology perspective, attachment is a chemical cocktail. Oxytocin, the "bonding hormone", is released during moments of trust and warmth. Dopamine rewards us for seeking out those moments again. The more we repeat them, the stronger the neural pathways become. That's why a baby stops crying the moment they're held. Why teenagers feel an electric rush when their crush says their name. Why two people married for decades can sense each other's mood from across a room. 

But the same pathways that light up with joy also dim when the pattern is broken. No morning message/calls. No shared walk. No warm paw pressing into your palm. The brain doesn't just notice — it protests. This is why emotional detachment can feel like physical pain — the mind and body are deeply linked in human connection. 

Attachment isn't just stored in memories — it lives in the body too, affecting our emotional well-being. A hug can slow your heartbeat. A voice you trust can loosen the knot in your chest. The smell of your childhood home's kitchen can take you back twenty years in an instant. 

We carry these anchors everywhere. Children have blankets and stuffed toys. Adults have coffee mugs, playlists, weekend rituals, and the scent of someone's sweater. These objects and routines are part of our emotional bonding. 

Attachment is the reason life feels deep instead of flat.

It's why friendships can survive decades and distances. It's why your pet runs to you like you've been gone for a lifetime when it's only been hours. It's why a certain photograph can make your chest feel warm no matter how much time has passed. 

With attachment, even the simplest things feel extraordinary. Watching the first rain of the season becomes a shared ritual. A night spent talking under dim lights feels more luminous than the most expensive getaway. 

It's the thread that turns ordinary beads into a necklace worth keeping. 

But every thread can also fray. 

The same bonds that bring joy can cause the deepest ache. A friend moves away. A child grows into their own world. A favourite cafe closes. Someone you love is no longer here. It doesn't have to be a heartbreak in the romantic sense. Sometimes, it's just life — people grow, priorities shift, and the once-familiar routines dissolve. The absence hurts not because something went wrong, but because it mattered. 

In the psychology of attachment, pain is not proof of failure. It's proof of meaning. 

So, what do we do with something so beautifully double-edged? 

We lean in. We let it be. 
We savour the text message while it still comes. We laugh loudly during the shared tea break. We listen to the song together, even if it will hurt to hear it alone later. 

And when things change — because they will — we remember that the ending does not erase the value of the middle. 

Attachment is the quiet proof that you've been alive. 
That you've cared enough to let something — or someone—become part of your wiring. 

So, if you're feeling its sweetness or its sting right now, let it remind you: 
It's only wonderfully terrible because it's real. 

 

Saudade: Living with the ache, loving through one's absence

If you have ever stood alone in your kitchen at midnight, hearing a certain song and feeling a wave of memory crash over you, you've felt it: saudade. This Portuguese word, impossible to translate exactly, wraps up that heart-deep ache for something or someone, just out of reach. Not simply missing, but aching for what isn't there, and perhaps never will be again. 

I think of saudade often on rainy days, when the city feels quieter, and the past knocks softly. Maybe it's hearing your loved ones' laughter in your head while making their favorite recipes, or scrolling through photos of a friend who's drifted out of your life. Suddenly, what's missing is alive again—full of presence and longing. 

But saudade's close companion is loneliness, a feeling we all know, even in a crowd. It can be overwhelming—coming home after a trip and realizing the silence in your apartment is physical, heavy. Or maybe you're at a table with friends, laughter bouncing around, but you feel like an outsider peeking through frosted glass. 

Sometimes, we guard ourselves, refusing to love or reach out, because the pain of possibly losing—even the joy of simply having—feels too big to bear. In fact, loneliness is now recognized as one of the top reasons people die earlier, right up there with smoking or obesity. We stop ourselves from building deep attachments, haunted by the fear that loss and absence might hurt too much. So, too many of us live with only surface connections, denying ourselves the warmth of real belonging. 

Think of the movies that linger because they reflect us back to ourselves. In Inside Out, when Joy finally lets Sadness take over, Riley connects with her parents again—because sharing heartbreak is often what brings us closest. Or in the movie Her, Theodore's slow walk through the city after losing his AI love stings because most of us have wandered our own city, grappling with missing someone impossible to call back. 

Songs do it, too. Listen to Adele's "Someone Like You" after heartbreak, and suddenly every lyric is about you. Coldplay's "The Scientist" is for someone, anyone who's ever replayed arguments in their head, wishing for a do-over that will never come. Music reminds us, painfully and beautifully, that longing is proof of how deeply we've lived and loved. 

Most of our saudade isn't cinematic—it's everyday. It's the way parents ache for kids who've grown up and moved out, leaving rooms full of echoes. It's nursing homes full of stories untold, and teenagers moving across the world for college, missing the smell of home-cooked hot Idlis and spicy chutneys. It's the child who lost a pet, the sibling estranged, the friend you no longer speak to. 

The longing goes both ways. Sometimes, we stop showing up for people because the fear of being left, of another loss, is too much. A quote often attributed to a philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard, comes to mind: “The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly one you’ll never have.” That tension—between hope and fear—shapes how we open or close ourselves to love. 

No one escapes this. Marcel Proust, dipping his madeleine into tea, recalls a world lost to time: "Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were." And Clarice Lispector, the Brazilian writer, notes, "Saudade is not a feeling of absence, but a presence that moves in one's soul."

We may call it saudade, the Japanese mono no aware (a gentle sadness at the passing of things), or the Welsh hiraeth (a homesickness for something lost). These words remind us, "We're part of a timeless human club—those who ache, who hope, who risk attachment. 

So, what do we do with these feelings? First, we accept how common they are. Loneliness doesn’t mean we’re broken. It simply means we’re human.

But it also means that losing ourselves to the fear of loss—choosing not to love for fear of pain—can be just as dangerous as missing someone we once loved. “Loneliness is one of the top reasons people die, or refrain from making attachments and connections for fear of losing it, and never having it again.” That’s not just philosophy; it’s fact. Our bodies, minds, and hearts need connection, even knowing it can end.

What helps? Sometimes, it’s as simple as reaching out to a friend with an honest message: “I miss you. Can we talk?” Or sitting with an old photo—not to wallow, but to remember how loved we once were, how rich and real those moments were.

As Rainer Maria Rilke said, “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” Being brave enough to miss, to yearn, to try again—that’s the most human thing we can do. 

If you’re reading this and feeling the sting of saudade, or drowning in loneliness, know this: You are not alone. Your feelings are shared across time and space by all of us who risked loving and losing, and dared to hope for more. Loneliness may be common, but so is the courage to try again.

As Leonard Cohen reminds us, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” May your longing be not just an emptiness, but an opening—a doorway to connection, to gratitude for what you’ve had, and hope for what you might still find.

So, let’s learn to live with our saudade, not as proof of emptiness, but as a sign we loved, and were loved, deeply. That is the beauty of being human, even with all its aches.

The Sound of Pressure Cookers: How Sensory Cues from Childhood Shape Memories

A particular sound that transports me back to my childhood home in Kolkata without fail? It's not the gentle melody of a lullaby or the distinctive voice of a loved one - it's the rhythmic hissing and whistling of a pressure cooker on a busy morning. That metallic symphony, punctuated by the occasional clatter of the weight dancing on top of the valve, somehow captures the essence of an Indian household preparing for the day ahead. 

I am not alone in this sensory time travel. For millions of Indians, the pressure cooker's unique soundtrack serves as a musical anchor to our earliest memories. But why do these seemingly mundane sounds hold such power over our emotions and memories? The answer is in the interesting combination of neuroscience, psychology, and cultural context. 

Our brains process and store memories in complex ways. While visual memories often dominate our conscious recollection, auditory memories can trigger emotional responses that feel almost deep-rooted. Research has shown that sounds bypass many of the brain's analytical filters, creating direct pathways to the amygdala - our emotional processing centre - and the hippocampus, which helps form and retrieve memories. 

This explains why the whistle of a pressure cooker might not just remind you of your mother's kitchen but can actually recreate the feeling of being there - the safety, the anticipation of a scrumptious meal, the morning rush before school. These aren't just associations; they are emotional imprints that have literally shaped our neural pathways. 

In many Indian households, the pressure cooker serves more than just a cooking vessel - it's the heartbeat of the kitchen and a timekeeper for daily routines. The typical whistles don't just indicate cooking progress; they often mark the rhythm of family life. 

For me, the first whistle in the morning meant it was time to finish my morning preparations. By the third whistle, I knew breakfast would be ready in exactly ten minutes, which meant I had to hurry or skip my bus. 

This auditory scheduling system creates powerful temporal associations that remain with us long after we have left our childhood homes. When those sounds become interconnected with daily rituals over the years, they transform into something more significant than mere noise - they become the soundtrack of security and belonging. 

What makes the pressure cooker sound particularly potent for Indians is its cultural ubiquity. Unlike more individualized childhood memories, this is a shared sensory experience that crosses regional, linguistic, and economic boundaries across the country. 

Beyond mere recollection, these kitchen soundscapes often provide emotional comfort. In a rapidly changing India where traditional family structures and living arrangements are evolving, these auditory connections to childhood can serve as emotional anchors. Many young Indians living abroad or in different cities often recreate these kitchen sounds in their own homes which helps them combat homesickness and anxiety. Some, like me, even admit to occasionally using pressure cookers for simple dishes that don't require them, simply to recreate the comforting ambience of their childhood kitchens. 

The transformation from noisy kitchen appliances to induction cooktops, electric rice cookers, add instant pots - that offer convenience but lack the characteristic acoustics that once defined Indian kitchens -  Perhaps, there's value in consciously preserving some of these sensory experiences, not out of nostalgia or resistance to progress, but because they serve important psychological functions.  The rich sensory landscape of a traditional Indian kitchen—its sounds, smells, and rhythms—provides developmental benefits that extend beyond the practical function of food preparation. These sensory cues help children develop rich, multilayered memory systems and emotional regulation tools that serve them throughout life. They create a sense of predictability and security that contributes to healthy psychological development. 

Understanding the power of these sensory memories can help us be more intentional about creating meaningful sensory environments for ourselves and future generations. It's not about clinging to the past but recognising how our sensory biographies shape our present and future.

The next time you hear the whistle of a pressure cooker and find yourself momentarily transported to another time and place, take a moment to appreciate the remarkable capacity of your brain to store these sensory experiences. That whistle carries more than the announcement of a meal—it carries the story of who you are and where you came from.

Too Much Freedom Feels Like Prison

We all want freedom, yet ironically, unrestricted freedom may also be a type of prison. In the well-known song by the band Rush, "If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice." Selecting a single course or path becomes paralysing when all options are available. 

Recall the sequence in "The Matrix" where the Architect tells Neo that previous iterations of the Matrix failed due to their excessive perfection? Because we lose our sense of purpose when there are no restrictions. Humans rejected heaven because we have an innate tendency to push against things. 

I spent 45 minutes last Tuesday looking at my Netflix queue and continuously browsing through the available alternatives. I was unable to choose just one program out of the many that were offered. In the end, I watched reruns of a show that I had previously seen three times. People, choice paralysis is real. 

It is comparable to feeling hungry in a food court that has thirty eateries. You keep going around in circles, questioning every choice until you are exhausted and enraged. Your friend, who barely had time to grab the first thing they saw, is now full and content after finishing their meal. 

We see this pattern everywhere. College graduates with endless career possibilities often feel more anxious than those with clear paths. Dating apps provide endless potential matches, yet studies show higher rates of loneliness. The average Indian spends roughly one year of their life deciding what to watch on TV. Okay, I made that statistic up, but it feels true, no? 

As David Foster Wallace put it, "The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline." True freedom isn't about having infinite choices but about having meaningful ones. 

I have noticed in my own life that my most productive periods come with self-imposed constraints. When I limit my options - working with deadlines, following routines, or setting boundaries - I paradoxically feel more liberated. 

Children understand this instinctively. Give a kid a blank page and say "draw anything," and they will freeze. Give them a coloring book with lines to fill in, and their creativity flourishes. The constraints provide directions. 

Perhaps this is why religious practices often involve restrictions - fasting, meditation, prayer times. These boundaries don't limit spiritual experience; they deepen it by providing structure. Even in prison, as Johnny Cash sang, "time keeps dragging on", but the confined space forces introspection impossible in the chaos of unlimited freedom. 

So maybe the answer isn't more freedom but better freedom. Freedom with purpose. Freedom with direction. Freedom within meaningful constraints that push us to depth rather than endless breadth. 

Next time you feel overwhelmed by choices, try creating some boundaries. Delete some apps. Set a timer. Create artificial deadlines. Narrow your options deliberately. You might find that the cage of too much freedom opens into something that feels a lot more like... well, actual freedom. 

After all, as the American singer-songwriter and actor, Kris Kristofferson wrote, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Sometimes having something to lose - having skin in the game - is exactly what makes freedom meaningful. 

What's Meant for You Will Not Pass You By

                                          

Have you ever watched someone you love walk away? Or felt the quiet ache of a friendship slowly drifting apart? In our hyper-connected world of seven billion souls, why do we sometimes feel so alone? Perhaps, it is time to explore an age-old wisdom that has comforted hearts through generations: "What's meant for you, will not pass you by". 

Remember that scene from "500 Days of Summer" where Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) finally understands why things didn't work out with Summer (Zooey Deschanel)? "I was sitting in a deli and reading Dorian Gray and a person walks in and sits down next to me. And I realized it wasn't Summer... it was Autumn. And I felt relief." Sometimes, the wrong person has to leave to make room for the right one. 

A close friend shared her story over coffee one day: "I spent six years in a relationship that felt like forcing a puzzle piece to fit. When it ended, I was devastated. Two years later, I met my current husband at a cooking class I would never have taken if I was still in my previous relationship. We connected over burnt pasta and bad jokes. With him, nothing feels forced. Everything just... fits." 

Think of friendships like stars in the night sky. Some are shooting stars - brilliant but brief. Others are constant constellations, guiding you home no matter where you wander. The beauty lies in understanding that not every friendship is meant to last forever, and that's okay. 

As Maya Angelou wisely wrote: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." Some friends are meant to be chapter-long characters in your story, while others are meant to be there until the final page. 

In our social media age, we're constantly bombarded with images of perfect relationships and #SquadGoals. It's easy to feel like we're missing out or that life is passing us by. But here's a secret: authentic connections don't follow a timeline or template. Some people find their soulmate at 20, others at 50; some have a tight-knit group of friends, others have meaningful one-on-one friendships; some maintain childhood friendships, and others build their chosen family later in life. 

The Art of Letting Go 

Remember the iconic scene from "Casablanca" where Rick tells Ilsa, "We'll always have Paris"? Sometimes, loving someone means letting them go. This applies not just to romantic relationships but to friendships too. 

A colleague I used to work with, once told me: "My best friend moved across the country fifteen years ago. We promised to stay in touch daily, but life happened. Now we talk maybe twice a year, but when we do, it's like no time has passed. I've learned that true friendship isn't measured in minutes of conversation but in moments of connection." 

The Bridge of Second Chances 

Life has a funny way of bringing people back when the timing is right. Like the lyrics from The Civil Wars' Poison and Wine: "I don't love you, but I always will." Sometimes, relationships need time and space to evolve, heal, or transform. 

Take Atlas and Lily's story from It Ends with Us. Once upon a time sweethearts, who broke up over getting caught in their secret relationship, lived separate lives for many years, and then reconnected at Atlas' restaurant. I guess even the characters would say that they needed those years apart because they had to become the right people for each other. 

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Think of your relationships like a garden: some plants bloom naturally, others need constant tending. A few might wither despite your best efforts; sometimes, the most beautiful flowers grow wild and unexpected. 

Instead of anxiously searching for "the one" or the perfect friend group, try cultivating self-love and understanding, staying open to unexpected connections, nurturing existing relationships without suffocating them, and trusting that meaningful connections will find you when you are ready. 

Sometimes, we are so busy looking for love in a certain package that we miss it arriving in another form. Like the song "The Call" by Regina Spektor suggests: "Love, you didn't do nothing at all...you just stood there watching me fall, and then some angel lifted me up."

In our modern world, connection can come in unexpected ways. I found my best friend through the shared horrors of adolescent ninth-graders. My friend met his partner and the love of his life through a random Bumble match. The universe has infinite ways of bringing the right people into your life, exactly at the right time. 

As you meander through the complex web of human connections, it becomes important to remember that what's meant for you will find its way. Like ships in the vast ocean that always return to the harbor. The right people will too dock in your harbor at the perfect moment. Your task isn't to chase every passing sail but to keep your lighthouse burning. 

When a relationship ends or a friendship fades, it's not always failure - sometimes it's just completion. Trust that new connections are already making their way to you, carried on the winds of perfect timing. 

After all, in a world of seven billion souls, the ones meant for you will find their way to your heart. Keep it open, keep it kind, and trust in the beautiful mystery of divine timing. 

forɛlskəd - тнє єυρнσяια єχρєяιєη¢є∂ αѕ уσυ вєgιη тσ ƒαℓℓ ιη ℓσνє

Very recently, I came across a Danish word that, for some, might sound very silly. But to me, it was like someone had invented the very language that would be able to give me the very word I would be looking for. Something that gives a name to the feeling that I haven't been successful in explaining in so many clear words. The very feeling, the emotion that swells within me every time I look at you. 

"Forɛlskəd" - the word for when you start to fall in love; the beginning of love. That indescribable feeling, that sense of the warmth of someone's embrace, the rush of euphoric excitement that makes the world look brighter and more beautiful than ever, especially when you look at someone who makes your heart feel full? Yes, that is Forɛlskəd for you. A word so small, yet so powerful, that it captures the blissful state of being in love. 

As humans, we are hardwired to seek connections in everything we do, and in every being that we interact with. Companionship and falling in love are the most profound ways to experience that. For a girl who has had her heart broken before, with an iron-clad determination to never let herself allow the liberty to feel such things, you came into my life like a wrecking ball. Within seconds, you shattered, what I would call my shield, my walls, layers and layers of stone around my core. And the most astonishing part? I let you. 

I let you swagger in with the kindness in your eyes, the softness of your words, the consideration in your actions, and the honesty in your smile, something that you don't give out so easily to everyone. The most lethal combination that could create a complete mess of a girl's heart. 

And, now what, you might wonder? It's like, even the most mundane activities have taken on new meanings and significance. A mere look is now enough to make my heart skip a beat. A shared plate of food fills my stomach more than a buffet ever could. An hour spent in your company seems enough to last me a lifetime, but it also keeps me wanting more. More of your time, more of your attention, more of your smiles, and definitely a lot more of your heart. 

Forɛlskəd has made me experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Frankly, I am so elated one moment, and so down in the dumps the next. Constantly swinging between wanting to text and see you and also keeping you at a distance to protect whatever is left of my heart. It is a roller coaster ride that makes me want to go on forever and jump off of it at the same time. 

It is something that is constantly pushing me to become the best version of myself, and also drives me half insane. 

And yet, 

it is all worth it, 

if it's You. 

~You return like autumn and I fall all the time~

~You return like autumn and I fall all the time~

Some days -                                                                                                                                                              I remember you giving me a ride around on your bike - Me riding pillion, with the wind in my hair and laughter escaping my lips, Holding onto you a little bit tighter every time you'd attempt to curve a particularly tricky bend,                                                                                                                          Braking hard just to hear me half-laugh, half-squeal and feel my hold on your shirt tight - some of those days when everything around us would feel right.

Now when I look at you through the phone screen, I wish things were as easy as they had been. Me - right across, laughing, smiling, giggling like the young girl in love that you make me feel. You - gazing at me from the other side of the table of your favourite café, with the same twinkle in your eye like you were admiring your favourite view. 

I think of you when I'm sipping your favourite coffee, or when I'm listening to a song you sang along to when we were out prancing about when the night was still young. 

I remember the way you smelled that day, every time I come across a fair on my way back home - fresh from your shower, all male, warm and sweet. I can recall that moment in a jiffy as if it were just yesterday. 

Everything and everywhere we've been, has always felt like something that takes place every day. It doesn't feel like a moment or a day that has happened in the past.

I suppose I could say that you're my only gift for all five of my senses. Your presence has embedded itself in all the parts of my being - for as long as I live.