nothingseemsenough

Latest Posts by nothingseemsenough

you told me something beautiful today

"we have a deal, my and my heart: i feed it salad and all the things he likes, cut down on that candy and fats, workout everyday at 7, give him enough rest and water, and it keeps beating fine"

well, guess what? me and my heart also have a deal:

i get to talk to him about you all the time

(and he promises me he listens)

but, at the same time,

he breaks a little with every word

(i love it, though. i love it. if i didn't, i wouldn't do it, right? right?)

i wish i were better at goodbyes.

yesterday was the last time i'm going to see you for a while, if not forever. not that i don't want to see you anymore - quite the contrary, you were (are) the biggest reason for me to wake up in the mornings. but now i'm leaving and you'll be gone, and i'll miss you. so so much. hell, i missed you when we said goodbye at the end of the day and i watched you making your way to the subway station, even with the knowledge that you'd text me that evening, to wish me a good night and that i'd see you the next morning, in school. these three months will be hell, and the years after, even more.

and what upsets me the most is the fact that we didn't even say goodbye. we stood there, awkwardly, in the middle of the volleyball field, with my best friend by my side and your girlfriend by yours and we just looked at each other.

you smiled. i tried to, but i had to turn my head so you wouldn't see me crying. i looked at you with tears in my eyes and you said "don't" softly, and that made me want to cry more. i said "yeah", and you smiled again, said "well", and waved. i nodded. you turned, took her hand, and left.

i started crying.

that wasn't a goodbye. that was an awkward standing contest, with your girlfriend as the judge. i could tell she was so annoyed because she had to be there. and i wanted to ask you for a hug, but i didn't have the courage. not while she was there. i don't want to be a problem, even though i probably am at this point.

i wish we could have said our goodbyes in the hall. just the two of us. you could have played brahms for me. i could have given you a hug and cried on your shoulder while you comforted me. that would have been a goodbye.

instead i just stood there in the middle of the volleyball field until i was hit on the head by a volleyball.

it was raining. the sky was crying with me.

i wish you were better at goodbyes.

is it really that bad that i just want someone to like me? i've been miserable all my fucking life, and now, when things could be happening, you come along with my greatest fears and tell me all the things that i don't want to hear, but i know that you're right and i hate that. he gives me the attention i crave of you, and he's sweet and funny and kinda stupid but these are all things i could work with. if he wasn't in love with me this would be so much better. i want something fun, with no strings attached, i just want a distraction from you and all the things you make me feel. i want to know what it's like to be happy with someone to feel loved and wanted, not dying all the time cause you held my hand once, to help me get off the ground. i want to be able to look someone in the eyes and think "i could love this person" instead of "he has this flaw that you don't". and here i am, thinking that i finally could be having fun, and you come around like you're the voice of fucking reason and tell me exactly what's wrong with me. that i am selfish, that i'm breaking his heart, that i shouldn't be so focused in myself (but no one ever has, is it a crime if i want it now?). and you're a fucking hypocrite in some things you've said. you told me he thinks about every walk in the park and every little touch, as if i don't die every day just by looking at you. as if i don't scroll through your texts and re-read them a million times. as if i don't talk to my friends about you twenty-four-seven. as if i don't try to spend every moment with you. as if i don't always make myself avaliable. as if you don't know what you're doing and you just see me as a friend. i love you and i hate you and i don't know if i should cry or shout or kiss you or never speak to you again. and the worst part of it all? i'll never stop loving you.

there’s a boy who plays the piano like magic drips from his fingertips. and he plays Beethoven and Brahms and Schubert and Chopin in the hall of our school and, sometimes, he’ll invite me up there and i get to hear him create something beautiful. i sit there while he plays, and i lean my head on the wall with my eyes closed and just listen and let the music flow around and inside me. and, when he makes a mistake, he looks at me and we laugh it off, but i think the music is more beautiful that way. and it kills me that i'm never going to experience this feeling again. because, truly, what else do you need to be happy? the boy you like is playing for you, there's no one else in the world except you two, and time stands still. forever. even if he doesn't like you back, you'll always have this memory.

why won't you text me back? christ, tell me, is it really that hard? it won't take long, i promise. just one short text. that'll do. i'll be fine. just "one sec", just "wait a bit", just "hang on", just "text you soon", anything, anything at all. i'll take anything. i'm used to it. it's you, after all. i'll do anything for you. i'll forgive each and every one of your sins. the last text you sent me was thirty eight minutes past midnight. it is now ten minutes to one. where are you? where did you go? are you asleep already? you would tell me if you had gone to sleep, right? you always do. every night i get a text from you saying "go to sleep, goodnight, till tomorrow". nine minutes until one. i'm starting to become paranoid. why did you leave me like this? i need you like oxygen. it's getting hard to breathe. you still haven't texted me back.

I've said "I love you" to you many times.

Well, not really. I haven't said "I love you", the three little words that burn my heart every day. I have never looked you straight in the eyes and soul and pronounced "I love you".

However, I think (I hope) I have said it many times.

I even made a little list.

The Postcard

The Socks

The Music

Skittles

Every piece of my writing that is clearly about you

The Glances

The Smiles

The Late Night Conversations,

The Hugs

The Occasional Pet Name

Everything you said and/or did that has made my heart beat faster than ever

I want you to know that, in every one of those things, there is a hidden "I love you". Hidden because - why is it hidden, really? - because it's wrong, no, it's inappropriate, it's unmeasured (feelings are not wrong, they are inappropriate or unmeasured) that I feel like this. Because you don't like me back. Because you have a girlfriend. Because I don't want to put myself between the two of you. Because you asked me not to do that. Because you love her.

Because I'd rather have my heart broken to no repair than to even chip a piece of yours.

[Although I hope, pray, that one day you'll be able to look back and see all those little "I love you"'s littered on the memories.]

The Creation

I went to Rome this year, as you know so well, cause I didn't stop talking about it for weeks.

You had already been there, but you still asked me questions about it. You're so nice. You're too nice.

"What did you like the most?"

I thought for a second.

"The Sistine Chapel."

You laughed.

"Of course, you nerd. Don't tell me: you spent hours looking at The Creation."

And you were right.

I spent the time I was there looking at The Creation. I looked up and the first thing I looked for were the hands - one of God, one of Adam - and then I thought about us. About how it's so easy for you to reach out, like God did, and for me to grab your hand. I know it sounds desperate, cause it is desperate, but I'll do anything and everything you want. If you want to be loud, scream at the top of your lungs; if you want to be quiet, I'll bury myself in your silence; and, if you want to love her and only her, I'll go back to being a stranger. Every single scenary is worth suffering through just so you can be happy.

I think that, in a certain way, we are The Creation. You're God, the Creator, the one that filled my dull life with light and love and rose me from where I was laying so low. And I, like Adam, couldn't get enough of it, so of course I fucked it up in the stupidest way possible.

I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'm so sorry you don't trust me anymore. I'm so sorry I made you not love me anymore.

[Maybe you never did, but I like to think it happened. Selfish, I know.]

If I could go back in time, things would be different, I swear to you. But then again, I bet everyone says and thinks that.

I'm sorry. God, I'm so fucking sorry. God, if You're there, if You exist at all, please tell him I'm sorry. He may not believe You, but I will.

Haircuts

III

I told you I had cut my hair and, surprisingly, you liked it.

We've been talking a lot these past days. I texted you once at eleven pm because I couldn't sleep and for some miracle of the universe you answered and now we're talking everyday. About everything and nothing. About what I'm going to do when school ends and about your next piano contest. And it always ends the same way, with you telling me to go to sleep without crying and me telling you the same and we exchange goodninghts and before I fall asleep I still think about you for an hour or more.

And that's our routine.

It was during one of these conversations that I broke the news to you.

23.51 hey I don't think I told you yet but I cut my hair. 23.51 OH GOD SHOW ME! 23.52 you sure you want to see? 23.53 yes pls!!! 23.53 fine. [image attached] 23.54 so fashionable. plus the hair is looking rly damn good. 23.55 aw thanks!

You said I looked more mature but still candid. Like someone who got her heart broken and grew from the pain and grief but still hoped the future would bring her love.

I was too scared to tell you that you were absolutely right.

Sometimes I think about telling you. About grabbing you by you shoulders and scream all my thoughts at you. Or stare at you with a look so profound you are hit by a shock wave with a telepathic message that says I love you.

But of course I'm just lying to myself here. We both know I would never have the courage to tell you.

I should really figure out how to send a telepathic message.

March Writing Plan

I’m still trying to make terms with the fact that it’s 2023, but March? HUH?

01 Wednesday - Write a 500-word story titled Serotonin

02 Thursday - Write a short poem about an embarrassing moment in your life and reframe it as a positive experience

03 Friday - Write 500 words for your main project (WIP)

04 Saturday - Take a break

05 Sunday - Write an opening to a murder mystery in a snowed-in rescue lodge

06 Monday - Write a 500-word story based off the color of lavender

07 Tuesday - Make up a new character profile for a fantasy story and write out their backstory for practice

08 Wednesday - Take a break

09 Thursday - Write a short story titled Crow

10 Friday - Write 500 words for your main project (WIP)

11 Saturday - Write a story set in a grocery store

12 Sunday - Take a break

13 Monday - Write a story that begins with the sound of thunder

14 Tuesday - Journal your reflective thoughts on a past event that impacted you and how you’ve changed as a result of it

15 Wednesday - Write 500 words for your main project (WIP)

16 Thursday - Take a break

17 Friday - Write a story where the protagonist is a pencil and the antagonist is a sharpener

18 Satuday - Come up with a superpower that is also a curse, and brainstorm what the world would look like if a select few people had it

19 Sunday - Write a story that follows a young archer

20 Monday - Take a break

21 Tuesday - Write 500 words for your main project (WIP)

22 Wednesday - Write a 500-word story featuring a teddy bear

23 Thursday - Write a poem where the main motif is a lemon

24 Friday - Take a break

25 Saturday - Write a story set in a kindergarten

26 Sunday - Pick your least favorite thing you’ve written this month and rewrite it in a different narrative perspective

27 Monday - Write 500 words for your main project

28 Tuesday - Take a break

29 Wednesday - Write a story using only dialogue between two scorned lovers meeting again

30 Thursday - Pick your favorite thing you’ve written this month and rewrite it in a different genre

31 Friday - Journal out your thoughts about all the writing you’ve done this month!

I’m so excited to share our first ever small products! These will be 3 digital workbooks for writer, each covering a specific area of writing!

The Character Bible

The Plotter’s Almanac

The World-Builder’s Chronicle

Each will contain their own fillable and customizable templates, and they’ll be available for purchase in March, either individually or in a bundle!

Keep an eye on my stories on Instagram and there, my link in bio for when these drop!

Haircuts

II

I cut my hair short. Shorter than I've ever had it.

I like how I look. I don't know if you'll like it. I told myself I won't care if you like it or not, because it's my fucking hair and my fucking life, but deep down I know a tiny part of me will care.

I don't think you'll like it. Before, I had long, brown, straight hair down to my waist and I wore cute little black glasses that made my eyes and face smaller.

Before the summer, I cut my hair, started curling it and exchanged my black glasses for a pair of metal ones that kind of make me look like John Lennon. Your words, not mine.

"You know who you look like now?" "Who?" "John Lennon." "No way." "I'm serious! And it's not like it's a bad thing, he was hot!" "Hotter than me?" "No, of course not! No one compares to you, buttercup."

I thought giving myself a fresh start would be like giving you another chance for loving me.

It didn't.

When we got back to school and I saw you with your girlfriend, it felt like someone was gripping my heart in one hand so fucking hard to stop it from giving away blood.

She has long, brown, straight hair down to her waist and wears cute little black glasses that make her eyes and face smaller.

Sounds familiar?

Why, why do you like her better than me? Please, that's all I want to know. Just tell me, God, please. What is it that she has that I don't? What is it that I have that she doesn't? What makes you love her but not me?

Please just answer me.

Until then, I'll be cutting my hair.

Haircuts

I

You came back from summer holidays with a new haircut.

I came back from summer holidays with a freshly (but barely) repaired heart. I could still feel some of the stitches if i thought about you too much.

I teased you so much because of your new hair.

"It looks awful." "It does not!" "Yes, it does. Boys always look awful after a haircut. You look almost as bad as Peter!" "Oh shut it!"

And we laughed.

I thanked God for it. You didn't look the same. I thought that, if you didn't look the same, it would be easier for me to pretend nothing had happened, because it was like I never fell for you.

You said you wanted change. That was the reason why you cut your hair.

We both wanted change. We were in the same wavelenght. You were pretending to be happy and I was pretending to be fine.

I was not. Oh so very fucking not.

My conversations with you still made me smile at three am. The thought of seeing you everyday was a bigger motivation than school or friends. I was still hopelessly and stupidly in love with you.

I, more than anyone, more than anything, wanted change.

Why am I running?

That’s a very good question.

I am not someone who likes to run. In high school, I was always the worst at resistance running. I couldn’t even get through five minutes of running. I despise sports, I don’t go to gyms, I can’t even run to catch the bus without getting exhausted.

And yet here I am, running. Running away, from my house, from my cat, from my books, from my guitar, from my little vase with roses, from my beat-up motorcycle, from you. I’m running through the streets of cobblestone, not looking back. I pass the florist and his pretty orchids, the baker’s and her doughnuts, the little bookshop with a red 20% discount sign on the window, the café that’s always open, even on Christmas Eve, one yellow car, two black cars, one motorcycle – I almost got run over – the park with the trees changing colours, the lake with a marble siren that pierces me with her dead stone eyes and lulls me to sleep on stormy nights, one, two, four, eight, sixteen houses that look the same, the old, boring monotony of a front porch and two stores, have they all been like this? All this time? Did I live in a house just like that, once upon a time? Doesn’t matter, I need to get away, to the crosswalk, to the fast lane, to the end of the road, until my legs and lungs are so tired, they just give up.

I collapse on the asphalt.

Why was I running?

Well, when I said I didn’t like to run, I lied.

I love running, and the rush that comes with it. The feeling that nothing can stop me, that the whole world is in the palm of my hands. That the world is a symphony and I’m its great conductor.

I run because I want to escape. To get away. To leave. I want to escape my thoughts, my past, my problems, the fact that I love you and the responsibilities that come with that. But you’re not the problem; in fact, I want to love you. I’m just scared that I’m going to be a disappointment to you. Even if I try (and, believe me, for you, I swear I’ll try), I’m always going to fuck up in some way and then you’ll leave me, screaming, crying, disappointed. And I can’t bear that. I love you too much to handle your disappointment in me.

That’s why I’m running. I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to hurt myself more than I already did. You can call me a coward and you can call me selfish, but I’m still going to run away.

You can’t stop me.

P.S.: If it were another life, maybe I would be braver and maybe I would tell you. But, in this life, I’m not. I can only hope that, in another life, you and I are together, because I didn’t run away.

"I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals. I need the lustre of their windows, their cool stillness, their imperious silence. I need the deluge of the organ and the sacred devotion of praying people. I need the holiness of words, the grandeur of great poetry. All that I need. But just as much I need the freedom and hostility against everything cruel. For the one is nothing without the other. And no one may force me to choose." - Pascal Mercier, from Night Train To Lisbon