Hidden In Plain Sight

An image of his face between my thighs.

Words flowing from my lips.

Never spoken aloud.

He brings forth these elements.

No rhyme or reason.

Poetry that lays dormant.

Hidden behind a thousand veils of modesty.

The urge to be truly seen.

A sense. A willingness. A desire.

A… need.

My unravelling at his hands.

Stirring something ancient.

The urge to pour secrets before him.

Permission the key.

Persuasion beyond words.

To no longer hide.

To bare all.

And let him sift through the pieces.

 

 

It wasn’t clear why I decided to go, but something told me I should. Feeling so lost (as of what is beginning to feel like forever), I wanted to see if there was anything there for me anymore. If perhaps I might see a beacon of light towards what was once held so dear.

The odd thing was that it felt like a reunion. And, a part of me both stirred and settled. Especially when I saw and heard, Him.

That was actually super surprising. I hadn’t considered having any response… just one of familiarity and great shared conversations. But something in me curled around His presence. Any awkwardness immediately dissipated. I felt strangely safe. Our history emerged from memory and I realised we’d shared more than I had thought, and it had created a trust I hadn’t recognised was building.

The usual thoughts played through my mind as He spoke… “You’re so cool.”

It’s difficult for me to gauge how I feel about someone when I’m with someone else, because I don’t observe or give room to anything beyond what I consider acceptable friendship realm. But it seems I had a crush I was ignoring.

“You’re so cool.”

It’s a line from one of my favourite movies. And in hearing it, I realised that’s the type of love I wanted. The kind that made me want to openly adore the person I’m with because in my eyes they’re just so awesome. A combination of child-like, teenage-like, adult-like crush material. I realise now, when that line pops up, I’m a goner lol.

Overall though, it actually felt great to reconnect. I’m still not sure what this way of life looks like for me anymore. But it sure was nice to spend time with old and new friends, remembering why I came to be here in the first place… and that’s what I had hoped to find again.

 

 

We thought because there was consent,

it was ok.

I thought giving you permission

was enough.

But it wasn’t the freedom of permission that you hungered for.

You wanted the part of me that was willing…

and wanted to destroy it.

 

I needed you to play the Monster.

And you did so beautifully.

You helped me touch on wounds I couldn’t find any other way.

But what we didn’t understand was that there was no

return for us from that place.

You would always be the Monster…

and I would always be your victim.

Even though we both know that deep in our bones

that’s not who we really are.

 

I don’t need Monsters anymore.

And you don’t need victims.

We played it as far as it could go.

Then lit a match and stood and held hands as we

watched it all burn.

Until you turned to me and said…

‘This is the end of a chapter.’

And I knew by the look in your eyes,

you meant us.

 

 

 

It doesn’t seem to be spoken about often, how difficult it can sometimes be to remain friends with a significant ex. It has taken so much work for us to get to where we are. Many, many, many times it seemed too hard and I considered walking away. No doubt he did too.

For the first time in my life I experienced giving everything to a relationship. And it didn’t work out. To say I walked away pretty burned and disheartened from that experience is an understatement. Remaining single for the rest of my life is still seeming pretty appealing.

So, what is this splinter that has come to the surface?

He is becoming the man I always saw and hoped he could be while we were together. If I step outside of myself I can say I’m so proud of him for wanting to become a better man. However, the painful part is that I have to accept that I won’t get to share in who he is becoming, in the way I had once hoped to. Some might say it’s better that I have a friendship with him. And yet, there’s still a part of me that mourns for “what could have been”… being safe to openly and freely love and admire him in his journey towards his authentic self.
And no, we can’t go back. I will never put my heart in that position with him again. That is my strength. I am the most indecisive person I know, but when I do make a decision it is impenetrable… especially if it is in regard to protecting my heart and wellbeing. Too much damage has been done. I will forgive and forgive and forgive and forgive… until one day, I quietly remove that person from having access to my heart, and they stay removed. It can hurt immensely. But I have come to learn it’s a necessary hurt. Friendship is the only offer on the table.

 

So, I will softly mourn. I will let that part of me shed her tears. And I will hold her and tell her it’s ok. Sometimes life just hurts, and that’s ok.

 

*not my writing*

She’s Not Cold. He’s Not Distant. They Just Got Older and Stopped Accepting Fucking Bullshit.

 

By Zen Prem

 

The older we get,

the less bullshit we’re willing to tolerate in the name of love.

 

We’re not here to decode texts anymore.

We’re not here for breadcrumb affection, breadcrumb effort, breadcrumb anything.

We’ve seen enough.

Been through enough.

And now?

 

Now we want something real, or nothing at all.

 

We’ve outgrown the drama dressed up as desire.

The emotional hide and seek that used to feel thrilling now just feels fucking exhausting.

 

The older we get, the clearer it becomes:

 

Love should feel like truth , not tension.

Like calm, not chaos.

Like home ,  not a fucking haunted house with good lighting.

 

She’s not cold.

She’s just done handing out warmth to men who only show up when they’re lonely.

 

She doesn’t want to hear how “different” you are.

She wants to see it.

 

She wants presence.

Consistency.

A man who’s not scared of her depth , because he’s met his own.

 

And him?

 

He’s not distant.

He’s just not entertaining women who turn closeness into a fucking test.

 

He doesn’t want to prove he’s safe anymore.

He knows he’s safe.

 

He’s done bleeding for the privilege of being misunderstood.

 

They’re both still capable of wild, aching love.

But only if it’s honest.

Only if it’s clean.

 

She’s not here to be anyone’s rehab.

And he’s not here to be anyone’s redemption.

 

They’ve both outgrown the fantasy.

Now it’s all about reality.

Not settling , but simplifying.

Not chasing,  but choosing.

 

She used to make excuses for poor communication.

Now she calls it what it is: emotional laziness.

 

He used to work harder when she pulled away.

 

Now he doesn’t chase , he observes.

 

And if it doesn’t feel mutual?

 

He doesn’t try harder.

He walks.

Softly. Cleanly. With his dignity intact.

 

Because both of them now understand this:

 

Love is not a reward for suffering.

And connection should not feel like a war zone.

 

She wants to be met.

So does he.

 

They’re not looking for a saviour.

They’re looking for a mirror.

For someone who sees the scars and still leans in , not to fix, but to witness.

 

They’ve done the healing.

They’ve cried the tears.

They’ve had the sleepless nights, the fuck it all phases, the deep reckonings.

 

Now?

 

They just want peace.

 

When she stopped mistaking inconsistency for chemistry,

her life got quieter.

Calmer.

Cleaner.

 

And at first, the quiet felt like loneliness.

But then?

 

It started feeling like home.

 

She took herself out.

 

She stopped settling for half-conversations with men who only knew how to speak in surface sentences.

 

She poured into her own heart and stopped expecting a man to unlock her softness for her.

 

And him?

 

He finally stopped apologising for needing space.

For not being “available on demand.”

For wanting depth instead of drama.

 

He stopped feeling guilty for choosing solitude over surface-level affection.

 

He learned to value his own nervous system instead of always managing someone else’s.

 

And now?

 

They don’t rush.

They don’t beg.

They don’t overexplain.

 

If the energy’s off, they feel it.

And they leave.

 

Not because they’re heartless ,

but because they’ve finally developed heart boundaries.

 

So if they meet ,

truly meet ,

it won’t be to fill a void.

It’ll be to walk together with nothing to prove.

 

She won’t need to be rescued.

He won’t need to be fixed.

They’ll just show up ,

as they are.

 

Clean.

Present.

And willing.

 

Because they’ve both realised something most people never do:

 

Real love doesn’t feel like confusion.

It feels like exhaling.

 

And when that love comes?

 

They’ll recognise it.

 

Because it won’t feel like performance.

It’ll feel like peace.

 

Not fireworks.

Not fantasy.

Just two people

finally done with the noise,

meeting each other

in the silence that feels like truth.

 

No, they’re not cold.

They’re not distant.

 

They’ve finally outgrown their own bullshit

and now know the difference between chaos and connection

 

They’re just  old enough, mature enough, awake enough, and clear enough

to stop bleeding for love that doesn’t know how to stay.

and start building it from the ground up ,

with honesty, presence, and fuck you level standards.

 

*(not my writing)*

I read somewhere that broken women know how to love but not who to love, and broken men know who to love but not how to love — and the more I sit with it, the more it hits.

You see it everywhere. Women who’ve been through trauma still show up with their hearts wide open, hoping this time it’s safe. They love hard. They give pieces of themselves they never should’ve handed over.

They pour into people who don't know how to hold space for it. They stay loyal past the point of logic, holding out for potential instead of reality. They ignore the red flags, rewrite the truth, and hand out second chances like they do not cost anything — even when those chances are met with silence or carelessness that cuts deep.

The problem is, they often give that love to the wrong people — people who are unavailable, inconsistent, emotionally lazy, or flat-out wrong for them. They mistake attention for care. They confuse chemistry for connection. And they keep thinking if they just love harder, it’ll finally be enough.

Then there are men who’ve been broken differently. Men who know exactly who they love. They remember her — the one who saw through their walls, the one who made them feel something real. They don’t forget her.

But when they had the chance to show up, they froze. They pulled back. They sabotaged. They shut down, because caring felt dangerous. They disappeared into distractions, into silence, into everything except the one thing that could have saved the connection — effort.

Love asked them to be present, consistent, vulnerable — and that terrified them. Nobody ever showed them how to be emotionally available without losing their sense of control. So instead, they let her go. They didn't know how to stay, how to communicate, how to be emotionally available without feeling exposed.

And now they carry the weight of that loss quietly. No loud heartbreak, no scenes — just silent regret that lingers. The kind they pretend does not exist, but it always does.

That’s the tragic mismatch. She keeps loving the wrong ones. He keeps choosing the right one too late.

She needs to learn that love alone is not enough — that who she chooses matters just as much as how she loves.

He needs to learn that knowing who you love means nothing if you cannot show up and act on it.

Until both do their healing, they’ll stay stuck in that cycle.

One loving too much, the other staying quiet.

One giving more than they receive,

the other withholding what matters most.

Love takes more than emotion.

It takes timing, courage, and the willingness to stop repeating patterns that left you bleeding last time.

Wanting someone is easy.

Being ready to love them right is something else.

 

‘Don’t you move a fucking muscle.’

His growl is so deep and low when He says this, I almost don’t hear it.

‘And don’t you dare drop that teacup. If you so even spill a drop, I’ll rip you apart.’

My eyes lower towards the cup. A little shaky. I don’t stare at it for too long. I don’t want to jinx it. But now I don’t know where to look, so I stare straight ahead. The Doll.

Back straight. Hands in front. Legs spread.
Heels, thigh-high stockings, garter, crotchless panties and a half-cup bra, clover clamps.
Lips painted red.
His Fuck Doll. Mouth open at all times.
His Mindless Cum Rag. All holes ready for Him at all times.
I stand without making a sound.

He’s crouched in front of me, concentration etched across His face. I watch, mesmerised, as He tends to my body like the conductor of an orchestra. So meticulous. The Wand, His tool. Or His weapon.

My body jerks. He looks up. Piercing eyes. I concentrate. Focus on trying to meet His demands. Trying to prove I can control my body with my mind just as He wants me to. But the pressure’s building. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. The orgasm. The.Orgasm. It’s not my orgasm. It’s His. This is what He’s telling me.

“Your body belongs to Me.”

‘Please Master, may I cum?’

‘No.’

A whimper escapes… I can’t stop it.

He smacks my inner thigh.

I look at the teacup. It’s like my hands no longer understand how to hold it. It seems strange, this thing, sitting there. And yet, it’s everything. I cannot spill that tea.

My body is betraying me.

 

‘Pleeease Master… may I cum.’

It’s no longer a question. A soft plea.

 

‘Don’t you dare cum,’ He growls.

I stare at the wall ahead. Drool collecting under my tongue. It won’t be long before it drips onto my chest… much like the wetness dripping down my thighs. He knows I both love and hate this.

I try not to make any sounds but it’s impossible. My vocal cords are no longer attached to the rest of my body. Are those sounds even coming from me? Nothing seems connected. All acting of its own accord. Hips bucking ever so slightly. Knees trembling. It can’t stop.

‘Master, please…’

Now the begging…. ‘Pleeease May I Cum?’ ‘Please, Master!’

My mind is blank. Am I even still breathing? Everything’s hanging on that moment, waiting to hear that one little word…

 

‘No…’

 

He inserts a finger and I gasp…

 

Sometimes my skin just doesn’t fit right.

My bones feel too jagged.

There’s an itch beneath the surface that makes my demons scream to be fed.

 

I hate sitting here.

 

She tells me they poisoned her.

Says she can taste it… smell it.

I can smell it too.

But it’s not poison. It’s death.

 

I look at her with compassion and love.

How terrifying it must be.

Her mind scrambling to make sense of the impossible.

 

I slide into a different position in my chair.

Cocooning. Comforting from afar.

‘I never imagined this,’ she says softly.

‘Me neither,’ I reply.

 

It’s true.

I never imagined her being someone to get sick.

Always bringing new and exotic “health formulas” into our lives to try.

Kombucha I was familiar with while I was still knee-high to a grasshopper.

She was the searcher. The seeker.

And now she’s here.

Thankfully not alone.

With us.

 

‘I’m not ready for this,’ my sister had said.

‘Me neither,’ I had agreed.

Both of us quietly acknowledging our surprise at still grappling with remnants of our mother’s path towards death.

It occurred to me I probably wouldn’t feel ready ever again. It always feels too soon.

Grief.

Such a loaded word.

The stress and turmoil of a loved one dying.

Watching as they slowly slip behind the veil of the living.

Being reminded that we each will someday walk that journey.

 

We talk about chocolate. And children. Past decisions. Skirting around the words that hang in the air unspoken.

“I love you.” “I’m scared.”

 

‘I’m tired,’ she says.

I help her up the stairs and we organise her bedroom for her.

I give her a hug. She’s so small now.

I can’t help but think of the irony of that after a lifetime of struggling with her size.

We say our goodbyes.

The weight of what goodbye now means, curling its fingers around each moment.

Is this the last time we will see eachother?

 

My sister and I talk in soft whispers in the kitchen.

We know what’s coming. We hug.

And say our goodbyes.

 

As I drive home, I pick over our memories…

deliberating on which pieces of her I will keep.