the shape of almost

on soft endings, folded feelings, and everything left unsaid

my siblings and i split the cost of expensive flowers this year
wrapped in tissue like offering, like apology.
we wanted to write the card in chinese,
but the website didn’t allow it.
so it says happy mother’s day, we love you
in a language my mom and grandma can’t read.
but i think love in our family has always arrived like this—
half-spoken, folded into gestures,
mistranslated, but still understood.

i’ve started noticing how the light collects in corners now
low and amber, the kind that makes everything look touched.
even the dust on the windowsill feels cinematic.
my coffee table. my couch.
the wilted monstera i forgot to water this week.
at exactly 7:43 p.m., the whole room glows
like it’s been waiting for someone to say goodbye.
and for a moment, i forget
that when the lease ends,
this version of me does too.

i got rejected from a fellowship i told everyone about.
moved my end date up at work, cleared my calendar
like i already lived in that future.
but when the email came, i didn’t cry.
just microwaved leftovers,
stood in the kitchen
while the silence hummed like an old fridge.
rejection doesn’t sting the way it used to—
it just dulls, like background noise.

in AP bio, we learned about habituation—
how an octopus, touched the same way again and again,
eventually stops reacting.
no ink. no recoil. just stillness.
our teacher said it was a survival tactic.
i wrote it down like it wouldn’t matter.
but lately, i’ve been blinking through things
that would’ve wrecked me last year—
texts that arrive late, plans that don’t.
is it numbness,
or just adaptation?

my friend said she’s been dissociating through spring.
and i quickly responded with “same.”
but what i meant was—
i’ve been feeling everything.
the sky feels bluish in a way that makes me ache.
the garbage smells sharper.
the L train screeches louder.
like my body is one big open window,
and all the weather just comes in.

i’ve been folding things smaller lately
half-finished thoughts, questions i almost texted,
the version of me that still waited for clarity.
not because i stopped caring,
but because the timeline started to fray—
like i wasn’t meant to catch the stitching.
some truths don’t break the surface;
they settle instead, like dust in corners.
quiet. patient. undeniable.

i’ve been writing more and posting less.
letting the words sit with me a little longer.
some things deserve to stay unfinished
to rot in my notes app
until they’re more than just survival.
until they sound like truth,
not just proof i lived through it.

there’s a plant on my windowsill
that keeps trying to bloom.
it’s leggy, uneven—
a little ugly in a way that feels personal.
i keep forgetting to water it.
but still, it turns toward the light.
not thriving. not dying.
just insisting.

i spent the afternoon in the mccarren grass with my friends
we lay shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing,
half-asleep beneath leaves flickering like film.
no one said much.
and i didn’t either—
how much i loved them in that moment.
not in a forever way,
but in that soft, gold-washed, just-for-now kind of way.
maybe i stayed quiet
because saying it
might’ve broken the spell.