The Art of Leaving

they say
you deserve better
you have a kind soul
a calming presence
easy to talk to
they say
you’re genuine
so incredibly authentic

but you show a crack
poof

you open the door
just a sliver,
and they scatter
leaving you clutching
all the ugly things
they said they loved

they say
I’ll always be there
just reach out
anytime
you do
midnight, 3 a.m., 5:47 p.m.
noose tightening
vise clamping

but they’re
busy
distracted
tired
somewhere else

who am I to expect their worlds
to tilt,
to collapse
to tremble
just because mine does?

who am I to imagine they should abandon
their warm beds
their quiet evenings
their neatly folded plans
for my storms?

they sing praises
to your strength
but your darkness?
your doubts?
your goddamn humanity?

poof

magic trick,
vanishing act,
rabbit in the hat,
except
you’re the rabbit,
suffocating

you deserve better,
they say
but only if you keep it
together
only if you wear the mask
only if you smile
only if you take your pills
only if you stay
convenient

and then it’s your fault
too intense
too much
a little draining
I’ve got a lot going on
you should talk to someone

poof

and there it is
the silent chorus
praising your resilience
applauding your survival
as long as you survive
quietly

they say
you deserve better
and they mean it
as long as better means
not them

I do not know where I stand
I look down and see nothing
but shifting sands

I make meaningless phone calls
utter hollow phrases
make bitter jokes
people laugh

I shuffle around
aimlessly
I look around
blurred figures
incoherent sounds
everything is always
just out of reach

I catch a glimpse
of my reflection
it mutates
morphs
faces I wear without consent

each second
a new man
one nods
one smiles
one frowns
one weeps
one rages

who do they think they are?
who do I think I am?

how many faces until I find one
I can live with?

I look down
nothing
shifting sands

nights of metaphorical chaos
days of literal sandstorms

dust drifts upon dust
every dawn lays a fresh layer over yesterday’s
every sunset freezes me in place

harder to move
harder to think
harder to touch things
to believe
harder to simply open the door
and take a walk

quicksand

my mind ricochets through dark corners
inventing catastrophes I can’t control

every flicker of quiet
becomes a prophecy of collapse

then, without warning
I was thrown a lifeline
several, in fact

blessing and curse

in the last two weeks
it could have all ended
the suffering
the joy
the enthusiasm
the hope
the misery
the despair
the ecstacy

in one final breath
it would all cease to exist

instead the lid snaps back on pandora’s box
and I’m conscripted against my will
into another chapter
of this cruel experiment

those lines tether me
they forfeit my right to leave

I have a life raft
I have a plank of wood to hold on to
to avoid drowning

I have shelter from the sandstorm
and now I cannot allow myself to leave
if I’m being offered
the mere chance of salvation

deprived of an honorable exit

so I stay

I will follow each thread
to its frayed end
a chance of finding something
that lets me
want to stay

only when the desert is silent
when every option lies exhausted
will I permit myself to leave
with pride
head held high
pockets stuffed with little bundles of
unraveled thread

and if one day
they find what remains of me
with no crumpled note beside my frail bones
no explanation
no one will dare ask

why did he do it?

Ignition

I turn on my car to head to the office. A ten‑year‑old parking permit clings to my windshield like a barnacle, 7 000 miles from the slot it once claimed. An ocean stands between the car and the space, not to mention the permit expired eight years ago. I keep trying cultivate an image that I’m a champion of logic, a custodian of reasoning—yet the sticker remains, defying every sensible argument. Instead of peeling it off by its yellowed edges, I drive with history rattling in the glass, convinced—against all evidence—that the space is still waiting for me.

That is how it always starts: with the obstinate sparkle of possibility. Your name flashes on my phone, my pulse forgets its training, and suddenly the night sky is littered with fireworks no one else can hear. You interrupt me mid‑story because a better story barges in from your mind; each laugh you use to punctuate your stories hooks me before the first syllable dries.

Love doesn’t come easy to me. I meet a new tide, forget every shipwreck, and dive straight in—no shoreline, no memory, no life‑vest. Affection never arrives gently; it surges like a breached dam. I don’t trickle—I drown, lungs filling before I can measure the depth. Gifts wash up on your doorstep, letters multiply in dark drawers, promises foam in the sink. Entire futures get sketched on café napkins before the table’s even cleared. Some people call that devotion; most call it suffocation.

Immersion

An eerie, familiar pull shadows the initial tide. Even while the screen still blinks with your name, I can already sense the moment you’ll pause—head tilted, eyes narrowing—trying to decide whether the extra layer you’ve glimpsed is charm or the first hairline crack beneath the facade. I know the sequence: day by day the varnish thins, my scribbled history piles up on your kitchen table, and what first felt like a spark begins to sting like salt in an open wound. Soon you’ll step back—first politely, then permanently.

Soon every stray sensation drafts a memory from some other life—the snap of a ketchup packet, the hollow clink of a mini‑bar bottle, a hotel sink dripping at 3 a.m., the phantom flare of fireworks behind closed lids. None of them stay put; they cross‑pollinate, borrow voices, trade contexts, until the whole archive hums with quiet indictment. They refuse to name a single culprit, yet their silence keeps circling the fingerprints I left on every fracture.

They form a grotesque chimera—eyes borrowed from each woman I have ever loved, teeth from each letter I never delivered. It does not smile when I walk by. It does not flinch when I scream go.

Preservation

People ask me to let go as though grief were a misfiled document I could drag to Trash. They do not understand my filing system. I don’t discard; I curate. I am the caretaker of defunct parking permits, duplicate keys, apartments demolished years ago, friendships embalmed in voice memos, and loved ones preserved like pressed flowers between pages I no longer dare to open.

Years bleed into one another until every hallway is the hallway where you kissed me, every rainstorm is the rainstorm where she left, every rooftop cigarette belongs to someone who never smoked. The timeline buckles under its own bad editing, yet I keep layering frames, one on top of the other, terrified of what might vanish if I stop.

Experience suggests it will take two, maybe three years for the current wounds to scab over—move on in public, never over in private. By then a new name will flicker on the handset, and I will greet it with the practiced innocence of a man who has never seen fireworks.

Re‑Entry

Tonight the phone stays dark. The chimera in the corner dozes, starved for another feast, unimpressed by my silence. Heading back home, I sit in the driver’s seat and trace the edges of that ancient permit. The adhesive has yellowed; a corner curls like a page about to be turned. I imagine peeling it free, wiping the glass clean, and driving until the windshield reflects nothing but road.

I do not.

Instead I whisper assurances I don’t trust myself to keep: next time I’ll stay on the pier, test the water with one foot, breathe. I’ll bring a life jacket, ease in one stroke at a time, and skip the cliff‑jump.

And yet the creature and I read the truth before it’s even spoken: let my name be called from the shoreline—promise the water is warm—and every safeguard unhooks itself. I will step past the warning buoys under the creature’s watchful eyes—the ocean pretending that it does not remember. And then I will dive, until I can no longer breathe.

I think I’ve gone insane. I live among angry little people.
They scream in gestures, smile with their teeth, and prod me like I’m a monkey in a zoo enclosure.
They take turns agitating me—sometimes with words, sometimes with silence.
And it works.

For a while, I pretend I’m above it all.
I tell myself I’m the evolved one. The bigger person.
But then I catch my reflection, and I see it too—I’m just another angry little man.

The difference is: I can’t leave.

They like me here. They need me.
Not in any useful sense—more like a mirror they can shatter when their own faces become unbearable.
I serve a purpose. I remind them who they are, and who they are not.
That comforts them.

Now and then, they open the gate.
If I don their attire, speak their tongue, compress my real self into the folds of my ribs where no one can find it, they let me out.
Temporarily.

They greet me with cautious smiles, as long as I maintain the illusion.
But I must be careful—there is always a watchful eye.
They test my edges, probe for leaks.
They want to know if the costume has fused with the skin, or if the original self still pulses underneath.
One wrong verb. One unsanctioned gesture.
One glimpse of anything that doesn’t fit the shifting shape of their fabricated culture—And I’m thrown back in. No warning. No trial.
Just the same grinning faces, proud to have put me back in my place.

The guards come sometimes. My alleged saviors.
They parade around, drag off a child who throws a bruised fruit at my head—
But the sticks, the ones lodged beneath my skin,
They remain.
They always remain.

I know I’ll never be one of them.
They know it too.
But this isn’t a misunderstanding.
It’s a ritual.

Someone has to stay in the cage,
so the others can believe they’re free.

It’s an incredibly strange feeling walking through Riyadh’s airport and seeing all the varieties of Saudis. The guy who cut me off and keeps ordering his female family members around. The guy who accidentally hit my hand with his bag and immediately and profusely apologized as I winced. The women with the colorful abayas and others with black from head to toe. The people I represent at work and the people I serve. I can’t seem to relate to them. I want to be part of the collective. Not the strange guy on the outskirts of society. I wish they knew how much work I put in trying to make this a better place for everyone. I wish they would accept me for who I am, but that is a certain impossibility.

The plane ride was somewhat surreal. I haven’t flown to a small Saudi airport in quite some time. On my flight there are three people wearing cowboy hats, one of them also sporting a niqab. The plane is full, with about 40% being babies. I haven’t heard this much crying in a long time. People are playing videos at full volume on their phones. Some of them throwing trash straight on the floor. Toddlers running amok. A small child just crawled from his middle seat, under his exhausted sleeping father’s legs, and casually started strolling around the aisle. A few people engulfed in blankets and bunched up in a tiny ball in their seats. The flight attendants have no hope in their eyes. The person behind me, a fully grown adult, has been kicking my seat non stop and casually leaning on it, lowering my headrest every few minutes.

I’m strangely—and unusually for me—not really bothered by any of this. It somehow feels intimate, like I’m among family. You don’t always love hanging out with family, and gatherings can seem like torture occasionally, but you tell yourself “hey it’s family.” And that makes everything okay. It feels like I’m at my grandma’s living room around Eid, with all the crying, coughing, and the running around, with the strange articles of clothing thrown on top to sweeten the deal.

I’m reading Murakami’s book about running, and I do feel a little bit out of place, but I secretly enjoy getting some side looks and seeing people wondering what this strange, misshapen guy is reading. Sometimes I wonder if I really do want to fit in. I claim that I don’t like the spotlight or the attention, but nothing gives me that boost of energy and adrenaline as much as a crowd paying attention to me.

Close to the end of the flight, my serenity and patience for my plane family had evaporated. What lingered was the feeling of being an outsider, covering every inch of my visible skin. Markings that everyone can see, and they were becoming more prominent the more I got uncomfortable. What’s with all the crying? Who takes off their socks and shoes on a two hour flight? Doesn’t anyone have headphones? Can you go five minutes without kicking my seat? Why not cover your mouth when you sneeze in my direction? My breathing quickens, my body starts to heat up, and the markings on my skin start to burn brightly. I don’t belong here.

I can’t wait to get to my hotel room, and take off these clothes that aren’t mine. Since I moved from my apartment in the city, nowhere felt like home. Instead of making an honest attempt at making Riyadh my home, I’d book a hotel room somewhere and travel in an attempt to accept that I’m never home. You’re not supposed to belong in a hotel room in a random city, so it’s okay to feel like an stranger. The issue is when I travel back to Riyadh. I’d park my car and sit silently for close to an hour, dreading going into the featureless concrete slab that I pretend is home.

For now I’ll play the role of the quiet civil servant, until my untimely demise comes around. I’ll continue honoring the reason I go to work every day—my fake family and their shouting babies. I’ll wear the clothes I’m told to wear. I’ll speak the way I’m instructed. But I’ll continue to count how many cowboy hats are on my flight to Tabuk, in a futile attempt to preserve some of what makes me who I am.

They asked me to trust them, to dismantle the intricate architecture of walls I spent a lifetime building around myself. I convinced myself that the walls were for my own protection. Brick by reluctant brick, I obeyed. Slowly and cautiously at first, but then gaining speed.

The hateful voice in my head, the architect of the prison, faced a revolution. For once, I had an army of people standing behind me. Eventually, I unfolded my soul, revealing every fragile, aching page, against the will of the warden. In my arrogance, I replaced him with a thousand loving voices.

But I must have misunderstood, I was never meant to take down all the walls. With every page I revealed, the distance between us started to grow. The disease was spreading—whatever vile substance that lied at the core of my essence was seeping out. I scrambled to contain it, but the damage has been done. Once the gates have been lowered, the walls torn, the plague cannot be rolled back.

The prison I had dismantled became a sanctuary for a time. Warm sunlight filtered in; life bloomed where there had been stone. But without the gardener or the winnower, it began to rot. The golden rays of the sun turned into an uncontrollable fire. The gardens and libraries crumbled, replaced by a barren, lifeless void. At the center of it all, I weep quietly, the warden’s silence mocking me.

I look behind me and the people who swore to stand by me are long gone. It’s not their fault; promises with the word “always” are impossible to keep. The longer they are exposed to what I truly am, the easier the choice to leave. Now I stand exposed. Vulnerable. Abandoned. And yet, I understand. The problem isn’t that I don’t deserve unconditional love—it’s that I know exactly why I don’t.

Some truths, once revealed, cannot be concealed again. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. And some love, fragile and conditional, cannot survive the weight of what lies behind the facade.

I was loved—so long as I complied. Loved, as long as I put myself last. Loved, if I molded my life to fit their rules, their desires. I am loved, and will eternally be loved, but under the sole condition that I would never truly be myself.

Dear Geu,

I may not know you all that well or that long, but I know that it has been a difficult year for you. I cannot sit here and tell you that next year will be all sunshine and rainbows, but I can tell you something that has kept me alive. While the world might seem occasionally dark and lonely, there is always more to it. All you can do is embrace it with all its malice and glory. Ride the highs when you’re up and enjoy every moment you can. Celebrate the little things, run in the rain, bask in the sunlight. Hold on to whatever brings you joy.

And when the lows come, as they inevitably will, remember this: you never have to face them alone. The weight of grief and sorrow can feel unbearable, but there are always hands waiting to catch you, shoulders you can lean on, people who will stand next to you in your quiet storms. If you meet the world with kindness, as I know you do, kindness will follow.

And when it feels like too much to bear, embrace the absurdity of it all. Let yourself be surprised by the strange, beautiful ways the universe tries to torment you. Dance with the uncertainty, lean into the chaos, and find delight in the unexpected. Trust that even in the confusion, there’s something worthwhile waiting to be discovered. There will always be sparks of wonder in the absurd and fleeting moments of grace that remind you just how astonishing life can be.

My wish for you, my dear Geu, is this: may you find love in every corner of your life. Love in laughter, love in solitude. Love in silences and in uproarious chaos. Let it fill the spaces that feel empty and soften the ones that feel hard. May you always have someone to remind you that you’re seen, that you’re valued, that you’re loved.

With love and affection,

TSW

They told me I could be anything. I chose to be the one who waits.

At first, it was a choice, deliberate and proud. I waited for their calls in the quiet hours, ready to absorb their tears, their fears, their failures. I waited for their needs to reach a crescendo, for their lives to break open just wide enough for me to crawl in and patch the cracks. I told myself this was love: to sit in the shadows, still and steady, while the world revolved around everyone else.

The waiting used to be filled with purpose. It felt noble, almost holy, to hold my breath and suspend my needs for the sake of others. I thought I was a lighthouse, guiding them safely to shore. But the shore is empty, the sea still. The horizon stretches endlessly, mocking me with its nothingness. The waiting has turned from purpose to habit, a hollow ache that fills the silence but not the void.

The candle flickers, casting long shadows that twist and stretch like specters. I watch them move, feeling a strange kinship with their aimlessness. They, too, are waiting—waiting for the light to fade, for the darkness to take them. And when it does, what then? What becomes of a shadow with no light to anchor it? What becomes of me when there is no one left to wait for?

The ending is always the same. Sift through a thousand photographs, go through a million memories, and you’ll find yourself alone in every single one. An empty passenger seat, a cold side of the bed, a hand no longer held. This is one night I wish the sun would erase. But the sun never erases does it? It merely illuminates; without the sun there would be no shadows. They take form and linger beyond the sun’s reach, their claws sharpened. I hear their shouts, I hear their murmurs, but it just might be all in my head. It does not matter if they’re real, though, on a whim, they can still spill your blood.

I don’t know what vile sin I have committed to deserve her fury. She liked to play this game where she asks for my opinion. The catch is she will never take it unless it fits squarely within what she already has decided before asking me. Games with her were always rigged. I know now that she never really loved me, but we shared something more intimate than love: an eternal, boundless, melancholy. We ached for something. Her eyes screamed it. The eyes of perpetual sadness.

She makes me question the rules I’ve put in place for years. The morals, the compass, the understanding of relationships I’ve clung to for so long—they all feel flimsy in the face of what I feel for her. I want to throw all of it out of the window just to see her face next to me first thing in the morning. I’ve built walls so high, thinking they’d keep me safe, but she doesn’t climb them. She doesn’t tear them down. She simply stands outside and waits. And somehow, that’s more devastating.

I told myself I’d given up on being a hopeless romantic, on grand gestures, on the impossible ideals of soulmates. But she rewrote that script. She made me believe, for the briefest moment, that maybe I wasn’t foolish to hope for something more. And now, I’m left with the quiet, aching knowledge that the rules of my life—the ones I thought were unshakable—mean nothing without her.

And now, I can’t escape the feeling that I’ll never quite find someone like her again. Not because she’s perfect—she’s clumsy and infuriating and stubborn in ways that drive me mad. But because she makes the world sharper, more vivid. The mediocre becomes beautiful in her presence. The sky bluer, the rats cuter, the air clearer. She makes me feel like I’ve been walking through life with my eyes half-closed, and now I can’t unsee the colors she’s shown me.

She gave me something more dangerous than hope, more wicked than enthusiasm, more insidious than love. She gave me a taste of what could be, and that is a drug with the worst withdrawal. I’ve tried to wean myself off it, but the memory is relentless. It clings to me like the scent of her hair, like the weight of her absence in a room she never even entered.

I miss her both emotionally and physically. The weight of her absence presses against my chest, her memory clawing at the edges of my mind. And yet, I can’t bring myself to regret a single moment. Because for all the pain, she gave me a glimpse of what could be. And even if I never taste it again, I’ll carry that with me. Forever.