Things I Told the Ceiling

You didn’t even date. No anniversary, no breakup. And yet, here you are — nursing a pain that somehow stings more than a heartbreak. This one’s for the people who weren’t yours… but still felt like home for a second.

Because sometimes, real wealth is leftovers in the fridge, a group chat that still laughs at your jokes, and a roof that doesn’t leak. Luxury isn’t always loud , sometimes, it’s just being okay on a random Monday.

In a world built on hot takes and snap judgments, the real flex is quiet observation. This is for the people who see everything and choose not to react. Not because they’re weak, but because they’re wise.

Everyone wants to go viral. Everyone wants the last word. But not you? You're out here protecting your nervous system like it's on a 2% battery. Because not everything needs your energy, and not every jab deserves a jab back. Sometimes the real flex is having nothing to prove at all.

It’s wild how we treat success like it’s a one-chair game of musical chairs. But the truth? Your light doesn’t go out because someone else’s is shining. Hype them up. It doesn’t delay your moment — it prepares your spirit for it.

Funny how trying to outgrow your chaos still makes people mad. You'd think healing would be cheered on — but sometimes, the moment you change for the better is the moment people start missing the version of you they could control.

This isn’t about how you walk or how your laugh sounds in a quiet room. It’s about the moments you thought no one noticed — the silent strength, the brave softness, the effort it takes just to keep showing up. You’ve been seen, even when you think you’re not.

Some songs don’t just play — they haunt. “This is my idea of heaven…” wasn’t meant to be profound. But when you’ve tasted something that soft, that safe, that good — and then watched it slip through your fingers without a fight — the lyric becomes a gut punch. You’re not just missing her. You’re grieving the version of yourself that believed something could actually last. Because nothing ruins a m...

You were resolved, detached, and emotionally on lockdown. But one conversation, one laugh, and bam—you’re living that REO Speedwagon line. For every guy who thought he was over it—until that feeling said otherwise.

When your brain and heart start beefing like they're on a debate team with zero chill. Logical You pulls receipts. Emotional You pulls wedding fantasies. And somewhere in the middle, you're just trying not to spiral into another playlist. Here's an adlib about those internal tug-of-wars we rarely admit out loud.

Inspired by Britney Spears’ “Sometimes” —but make it emotionally confusing, slow-burn, and narrated by the guy who’s still waiting for a full verse. This isn’t about chasing. It’s about staying in a duet with someone who sings half the lines, then goes quiet when it matters most.

You ever spiral so hard over something simple, you start narrating your life like it’s an HBO miniseries? Welcome to the mental gymnastics of turning a minor inconvenience into an emotional TED Talk.

Inspired by Paramore’s iconic heartbreak anthem — this one’s for the ones who didn’t just fall, they freefell . Who don’t regret the love, but damn… the landing could’ve been softer.

No speeches. No affirmations in cursive fonts. Just a simple tap-tap over the heart — like a Morse code for “I’m trying.” This is for anyone who’s run out of coping mechanisms but still has two fingers and a whisper left. It’s not healing. But it’s honest. And sometimes, that’s enough.

What happens when you try to drop a subtle hint but end up at the wrong address? This tale of romantic misfires and mixed signals captures the awkward charm of showing up with good intentions and getting hit with reality instead. Equal parts sweet, silly, and a little sad, it’s another romcom moment that proves sometimes the biggest surprises are the ones you never saw coming.

When life’s a whirlwind of unanswered texts and tangled thoughts, sometimes the simplest comfort — like a steamy bowl of ramen — is the reminder you need. An adlib on finding calm in chaos, one noodle at a time.

You don’t always get the win. Sometimes, all you get is the silence after the ‘no.’ But this isn’t the end — it’s just a sharp corner in a much longer road. The kind that stings now, but somehow makes sense later. Maybe.

It’s a brand-new day. The sun is up, your feet are on the ground, and somewhere out there, so is she. No fanfare. No reaching out. Just a quiet check-in your heart does anyway — like clockwork. You’re not falling apart, but let’s not pretend you’re untouched either.

It’s not a grand confession, not a movie moment. Just a quiet ache. A gentleness you reserve for one person who might never realize she’s the reason your guard finally slipped.

Because nothing says emotional maturity like confessing your love to a Notes app and then pretending it was just creative writing . This one’s for every “I love you” that never made it past your pride, your overthinking, or that one imaginary scenario where they said “thanks” and married someone else.

A late-night dinner turned into a full-blown romcom moment I didn’t see coming. I ran after someone like I was in a cheesy Filipino movie—cue the dramatic music and soft lighting—only to realize halfway through: this isn’t a film, and I’m not 28 anymore. But sometimes, you move not because it makes sense, but because it felt right in that second. Here’s a short story of an almost, a maybe, and a g...

This is a quiet kind of reckoning — a reflection from another version of me who has felt the sting of almosts, almost-loved, and nearly-chosen. It’s a letter to the version of me who kept showing up, even when it hurt. Who thought that waiting was love, and silence was a maybe. But time has a way of softening the edges. This piece is about holding space for our own growth, honoring the ache, and f...

This one’s for the fighters no one sees. The ones who show up even when they’re falling apart. Healing doesn’t always look like breakthroughs — sometimes, it’s just making it to the end of the day with your sanity (mostly) intact. Survival is still progress. And staying? That’s its own kind of heroism.

You’re not where you thought you’d be. Everyone else looks like they’re winning. But your timeline isn’t broken — it’s just not on anyone else’s clock. Your roots are growing. Quietly. Powerfully. Just wait.

You want signs. Guarantees. Some cosmic certificate that says, “This will work.” But life doesn’t do that. It hands you fear and possibility in the same box — and dares you to choose movement anyway.