Out of all the blogs I've written, I feel like this one is going to be different. Unlike the others that were written at my study table or while I was lying dramatically on my bed staring at the ceiling, this one is being written in a cafe. I'm sitting here with my favorite coffee, typing away, writing the blog I probably should have written a long time ago. If someone had told me even two months ago that I would walk into a cafe alone, order for myself, sit confidently, and write an entire blog, I would have laughed. Or said "maybe" and never actually done it. But here I am. And the fact that I am sitting here, unbothered, with words flowing so naturally, feels a little surreal. Maybe growth doesn't always look loud. Maybe sometimes it looks like a girl in a corner seat, sipping coffee and finally choosing herself.
Because today, I'm not writing about heartbreak or confusion or lessons learned the hard way. Today, I'm writing about something I'm finally allowing myself to believe. That I'm loved. Not in a fairy-tale way. Not in a constant reassurance way. But in the quiet ways. In the way people check on me. In the way my name is remembered. In the way I carry warmth inside me, even when I pretend I don’t.
I always knew there are two ways of looking at something. At least that's what I told everyone else. I had all the advice ready, neatly packed, whenever my friends needed it. I could flip perspectives like it was nothing. But when it came to me? I said, bye, I’m good. No alternative view required.
For myself, there was always just one version of the story. The worst one. The loudest one. The one that confirmed every insecurity I already believed. I never even considered that maybe there was another way to look at it. Maybe I deserved the same.
For the longest time, I thought love was something loud. Obvious. Impossible to miss. So if I couldn't see it clearly, I didn't even allow evidence to be presented. Turns out, I was just looking for it in the wrong places.
AND THEN I STARTED NOTICING THINGS.
Every time I have morning classes, I need tea. Not want. Need. Otherwise, my brain simply refuses to cooperate. And there's only one stall in front of campus that opens that early, so naturally, that mama has seen me at my most sleep-deprived and least functional.
During semester break, I didn't go for weeks. No classes, no 8 a.m. survival tea.
A few days ago, I had a morning class again. I was walking toward the stall, still half asleep, and from a distance I saw him look up and notice me. Before I even reached there, he had already started making my tea. Extra sugar. The way I like it. He remembered.
When I got there, he handed me the cup and said, "I haven't seen you in a very long time, mama."
And I don't know why, but something shifted inside me.
It wasn't dramatic. No violins. No life lesson background music. But in that small, ordinary moment, I realized something very quietly.
My absence was noticed.
My preference was remembered. In the simplest way possible, I mattered enough for someone to remember how sweet I take my tea.
Maybe love is just extra sugar without having to ask. And there I was, emotionally unstable over a plastic cup of tea before class even started.
I started noticing tiny things differently. Like how people actually remember stuff about me, even when I’m too busy thinking no one does. It hits quietly, but somehow it makes your chest feel warm and slightly panicky at the same time.
And apparently, I have friends who notice the tiny stuff. Which is terrifying and magical all at once. Honestly, I don't deserve this, but I'll take it.
I met one of my school friends for the first time in six years. And he showed up with colored pens. Just because he noticed I'd started doodling random quotes again.
And of course, he also bought me a sunflower, because he knew how much I love them, like, really love them. So much that I even kept "Himawari" as one of my other identities.
Another friend guessed what would make me happy and showed up with markers, color pencils, and chocolates.
Two of my closest friends wrote me letters. They didn’t ask if I wanted them. They just… did it. Because they know me. Because they remember things I never even told them out loud.
And when I vanish from social media for days? They check on me. Quietly. Consistently. And I don't know why, but somehow that feels like love I never expected.
And how can I even forget the love that waits for me at home? Dogs running up like I'd been gone forever, cats pretending they don't care, but clearly bothered when I'm not in my room.
And then, out of absolutely nowhere, the last picnic of university life happened a week ago, and somehow it hit me like a sugar rush mixed with a sunburn and way too many inside jokes all at once. Friends noticing when I went quiet without asking why, it all made me feel ridiculously loved. It fixed something I didn’t even know how to fix for months, and somehow, that was enough.
All of this love, the small, messy, quiet kind, has brought me here today. So, naturally, I bought pretty flowers for myself on this little Falgun/Valentine's Day celebration. Because why not?
And yes, I might be slightly broke and overthinking everything, but apparently I'm loved anyway, and that’s enough to feel like a full heart today.
Like the moon that chases me everywhere I go, I want to chase all the tiny hopes. I hope I never stop looking at life like this, noticing the small magic tucked into ordinary days.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to call today… a good day.
