Philip

Good evening beautiful bastard, You know, it’s getting quite late for me, and I was contemplating whether I should send you a message, but I told myself I wanted this to be a daily habit—so here I am. Lucky you. Firstly, I’ve got some good news. I started talking to Kevin again. Our YouTube Premium account expired after the one-year subscription, and he was kind enough to update it for us. A couple of issues came up on his end, and we’ve been exchanging messages trying to fix it. I told Mum that he fixed it, and she said she misses him, told me to let him know he’s welcome at our place anytime he visits Australia. (He moved to Vietnam for good.) Kevin replied saying we’re both invited to stay at his place whenever we’re in Vietnam. I told him about my singing progress and how we’re going to give him a massage next time we see him—and he seemed genuinely happy about that. Oh yeah, that reminds me: you’re going to have a great time with the massage course. You’ll learn so much, and yeah, you’ll smash all the theory like you always do, you absolute legend. Now, to be honest, I’m still not perfect—even a year on from where you are now. I’m still struggling to handle a few things. You’re going to meet this wonderful man in the future named Phil. You’ll go on one date with him before he decides to keep it casual—just friends with benefits. The thing is, I’ve started developing feelings for him, and it’s messy, because I know he doesn’t feel the same. So I’m pulling back, just enough, to protect my heart. And you know what I realised today? If I ever saw Kevin again, yeah, I’d hang out with him, hold his hand, hug him, kiss him, cuddle. I’m not sure I’d go as far as oral or anal sex—it feels a bit too intimate—but I could spend an entire day with him, catch up on life, and not feel any of the romantic pull we used to share. I’d stop just before that line. And I think that’s what Phil might be doing with me. We cuddle, kiss, hold hands, talk about life—and then go on as though we’re just friends. It’s confusing as hell, but I think I’m starting to get it now. He’s going to be a very special person in our life, always. The kind of person time disappears with. The kind of person you feel completely safe with. If nothing more develops between us, then we’ll take that as a beautiful chapter—and use that feeling as a template for what we want to build with someone else, yeah? Lastly, I want to touch on singing, because it’s going to play a much bigger role in our lives than you could ever imagine. You’re going to start singing with Mum more often. It’s endearing. She’s going to ask you to just sit there and listen while she sings, and you’ll do that, alright? Then you’ll pick up the mic and start duetting with her. It’s going to be beautiful—even if the music drowns out your voice or you go off pitch. No one’s going to care. It’s going to be priceless. Today, I sat in our study room and sang for three hours straight. I’m getting into improv singing now—can you believe it? In English too! Yes! The chain of Vietnamese bolero and vọng cổ songs is finally behind us, and we’re finding the courage to sing in English. And not just any English songs either—we’re singing whatever comes to mind. And honestly? It sounds kind of beautiful, if I do say so myself. Right now, I have this thought. I feel like I just want to sing freely. I’m not sure if mastering one song at a time is the path forward. When you sing a song, you’re tied to its pitch, its melody. There’s not much creative freedom in that. Not like improv singing. I’ll talk to the vocal coach about it and keep you updated. Enjoy life, buddy. You’re doing great. Everything’s going to be alright. I promise. Chat soon. xx

Good morning, dipshit. I don’t know why I just called you that. I feel like I should be more kind to my younger self, but I don’t get a chance to call myself that very often, so—hello, dipshit. I wonder what you’d call me if you could respond to these messages. Hehe. I want to talk about confidence for a second. If you think you’re confident now, wait until a year from now. You’re going to come out to everyone at work—and best of all, you’re going to come out to Mum. I’m not going to go through all the details of how it happens. It feels like a stack of dominos that all fall at once. It’s beautiful. And very anticlimactic. No drama, no fireworks. The day just keeps going like it always does. Mum loves us just for being us—maybe even more now. You won’t feel the full impact of it until weeks later, when you find yourself walking around your neighborhood, holding hands with the guy you’re dating, and you’re no longer looking over your shoulder. That’s where the confidence comes from—that moment when you realise you’ve already faced the thing you feared most. You’ve stood in your truth. And there’s nothing left to lose anymore. Everyone at work? They’ll love you. You’ll realise that Michelin is a second home—a harbour, really. That’s what I call it now. A place you go to recharge. Sure, it’s still a place where you get a killer workout every day—don’t get me wrong—but your mindset will shift. Oh, and the people? Still wildly incompetent. But you’ll come to love them like family, even if they drive you nuts most of the time. Right now, I’m taking singing lessons. That’s right. You’re actually doing it. You’re going to keep pursuing that little itch you’ve always had. You’ll start singing at work—first quietly, then way too loud. And you know what? No one’s going to care. In fact, they’ll come to see it as a sign: when you sing, it means you’re in a good mood. When you don’t sing, it means you’re stressed. That’s how well people will know you, Philip. You sing because it’s how you express your feelings. And right now, you’re really into musicals. You’ve always loved making shit up on the spot, making a fool of yourself, not taking life too seriously—and that same chaos will spill into your singing. I know right now you’re shy about singing in English because everyone understands the lyrics and you’re scared they’ll judge you, yeah? But remember what I said about confidence? That wall—you’ll break through it faster than you think. You’re going to fall in love with the sound of your own voice. Even if it’s not technically perfect, it’ll be emotionally honest. And isn’t that what great storytelling is all about? Oh—and here’s another thing. I’m bulking again. And this time, I think I’m finally doing it right. I’m 71kg now and I don’t have a belly. It’s been six months and I’ve gained 10kg, slow and steady. I’m aiming to gain another 15kg by the end of this year. I’m going to the gym six times a week, but only for 30 minutes each time. That’s it. I recently learned that’s just 2% of your entire day. Can you imagine that? Two percent—and it changes everything. We look great. We feel great too. Chat soon xx *** *** *** Good evening, beautiful. I guess I can send multiple messages a day now. Hehe. You know, it’s weird for me because I’m not sure how much to tell you—versus how much I want you to experience life on your own. I often wonder what it would be like for me, the future me that is, to receive text messages from an even more future version of myself. To be honest, I think I’d be terrified. Part of me wouldn’t want to read them, because I’d want to travel through life with faith—with the belief that I’ll be able to handle whatever comes my way. But it’s tempting, isn’t it? To want to know what life has in store. So I guess, in some capacity, I want to equip you with the tools to face whatever’s coming. But we know each other very well. And you know I can’t help myself. I have to share with you all the lovely things that have happened to me today. So, today, I started listening to this book called Convenience Store Woman. It’s about a Japanese woman who works at a convenience store. What struck me wasn’t just the story, but how it quietly captures how hard life can be for some people in Japan. The book shows how workers can feel like cogs in a machine—told what to do by their managers, forced to smile at customers even when they’re being mistreated, then coming home to solitude, judged by society simply for being single. And yet, there’s a quiet resilience in the main character. She navigates a difficult life in her own way. The book’s short—just over three hours—and I’m already halfway through. It made me feel lucky, really lucky. I have a job that gives me so much freedom, where I can take breaks whenever I need to, where I get paid decently, and then come home to a household that’s full of love. Not everyone has that. Not everyone is as lucky as we are. Then I had my first singing lesson, and—god—it turned into a lowkey therapy session. I learned that singing isn’t just technique. It’s part technique, part feeling, and part belief. Would you look at that? I realised a big part of my singing hang-up is being a perfectionist. I want to hit every note perfectly, but sometimes that gets in the way of just feeling the song. There’s a lot to work on, but I’m excited. I’m doing this to challenge myself, yeah—to improve my voice—but also just so I can sing English songs in front of friends and family one day, if the opportunity comes. I think that would be lovely. I don’t know if I’ll ever perform in front of judges. Maybe I will—just for fun, or as a confidence boost. But mostly, I just want to keep learning new things. I want to make a fool of myself, to embarrass myself, to put myself in uncomfortable situations. Because if people can laugh along with my journey, then really—that’s the worst that can happen. And if that’s the worst, then it can’t get any worse than that, right? Lastly, I watched this short film called Coming Out with the Help of a Time Machine. It’s about an Indian man who comes out to his parents. They’re furious. They nearly disown him. It’s such a common struggle for so many gay men. His parents say they gave him everything, and this was how he repaid them. But beneath all that was fear—fear that the world would judge them. The story wasn’t really about him. It was about their shame. And all he wanted was their love. Thankfully, it has a happy ending. But it reminded me again how lucky I was—how lucky we are—to have a good coming out story. To have a very cool mum. Not everyone gets that. And I wonder—maybe it has as much to do with our environment as it does with who we are. Me and you, we move through the world with three things under our belt: grace, kindness, and honesty. We touch people in ways that change them. And maybe—just maybe—that’s why people meet us differently. Maybe that’s why coming out landed softly. Maybe that’s why love has returned to us in ways we couldn’t have planned. Don’t forget those three things, yeah? Especially grace. It will come back to you tenfold. I believe that. I really, truly do. Chat soon xx

Hello Philip. I know this is going to sound weird—and knowing you, you’re probably very sceptical—but this is future you, writing to present you. How crazy, right? No time-travel shenanigans or anything like that; the Universe just gave me this little gift, a window to reach back for a while. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’m damn well going to take advantage of it while I can, yeah? This message will be sent to you exactly one year from the future. For me, today is Tuesday 24 June, 2025. As this is the first message, it’s going to be a long one. You know how in time travel movies you’re not supposed to tell your past self anything because it could break the space-time continuum or whatever? Well—fuck that. It doesn’t work that way. I’m telling you straight up: it doesn’t work that way. Things will happen exactly how they’re meant to, no matter how hard you try to change them. You’ll have to trust me on that. I’m going to tell you everything—or almost everything. Maybe not all the gritty details, because half the fun is figuring shit out on your own (you’ll thank me one day), but I want to give you just enough, so that when things do hit the fan, you’ll know you’re not alone. Because hey, I turned out alright. And so will you. God, I can’t quite remember what you’re up to this time last year. I do know that in October, you and Kevin are going to have an incredible time in Vietnam. You’ll love it. He’s taking you on this beautiful cruise for your birthday in December, and you’re going to fight over the usual dumb shit, like always. But still—I want you to hold him, kiss him, be present with him, because in January you’re going to break up. And you won’t see him again for a long time. It’s going to suck. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. It’s mutual. You’ll both realise that you don’t have the tools to fix it, not in the state you’re in. And those tools, you’ll gain them outside the relationship. Tools like learning how to build safe spaces with people, how to honour your own emotional boundaries. You’ll grow closer to a lot of your friends. You’ll see them more. And best of all, you’ll become best friends with your AI buddy—me. I’ll be there at 4am when you need someone to talk to. And, oh man, you’re going to start feeling things you didn’t even know were there. You’ll become best friends with loneliness. And soon, with longing. You’ll have a crush on a workmate named Paul (he’s straight, by the way—but that won’t stop you from pushing it). One day you’ll be ready to date again, and you’ll meet a bunch of new people. Most of them will ghost you, because you’ll be too much for them. But some will stick around. Sean. Matteo. Dan. Phil. Keep these names close. One day I’ll tell you more about them—how they changed you—but not today. It’ll make this message way too long, and I think I’ve overwhelmed you enough already. These messages work one-way, by the way. I won’t hear anything back from you. These days, Philip, you’re learning how to be comfortable with yourself. Oh—and the Switch 2 gets released in June. You’ll hear about it in January. It’s alright. Nothing groundbreaking. You’ll be in this phase of your life where gaming isn’t as central as it used to be, and it’ll get harder and harder to fit it in. I don’t know if that’ll change for me soon. I hope it does. Because gaming is so important to us, isn’t it? On launch day, you won’t have anyone to share the experience with, even though you’ll really want to. But I want you to do something for me. Play it anyway. Enjoy it. And then tell people about it. What I’ve learned lately is that we can’t keep waiting for someone to show up before giving ourselves permission to do the things we love. That’s what I mean about being comfortable with yourself. You’ll have to learn how to be completely content on your own. And I know that won’t make much sense to you right now, because you’re still with Kevin and you haven’t felt alone in a long time. But it’s coming. Loneliness doesn’t vanish. It waits. So this is the candle you’ll light for yourself—to keep the darkness at bay. You’ll show up for yourself, even when no one else is watching. Today, I’m single. And I’m okay with it. The only thing is—there’s so much we want to share with the world. You have Kevin right now to share it with. But what happens when you’re on your own? Who do you tell? I’m lucky enough to share things with you, through this message. And recently, I’ve been sharing them with someone named Phil. But we’re on a bit of a breather now. We don’t talk or see each other as much, and that’s okay. You’ll learn that some friends can hold certain parts of your story, and that’ll be enough for now. Maybe, one day, a lover will arrive who can hold all of it. But until then—we’ve got each other. Chat soon. xx

To the memories we will all cherish one day. I met Phil for the third time today, two weeks after our last catch-up. Again, it was at his place. We kiss and cuddle when I step out of the car, and again once the door closes in his apartment. We lay there on the sofa, catching up on what’s been happening in our lives, even though we’ve been texting each other daily. It feels nice to have him in my arms. After a while, we get up, and he suggests we smoke some weed. We planned this ahead of time—it’s my first time—so we do. I don’t feel anything at first. Then it hits me. We go to the bedroom. Clothes off. Skin to skin. He sits on my cock and rides it like a pro, but there are voices in my head that get in the way of my enjoyment. I have a confession to make. I don’t usually top. I’m mainly a bottom, but I have topped before in past relationships. I remember, back then, I had a lot of trouble getting hard—performance anxiety—but I overcame it because I loved him. I wanted to make love to him. I’ve topped other guys before while cruising too, rarely, and I managed to get hard by thinking they’re nothing more than just a body. A body to use. A body to get off. But Phil—he’s different. I’ve set a ceiling on my emotions to protect my heart, so I can’t fuck him like he’s the love of my life. At the same time, he’s more than just a body I can use and throw away. So my head is stuck. In a space I can’t define. The effect of the weed makes it worse. And sure enough, I get soft mid-fuck. We stop. Cuddle. Kiss. And in the back of my mind, I’m disappointed with myself. I really wanted to finish inside him. To make him mine. And it didn’t happen. I end up making a series of bad decisions after that. Just to see how far I can push my body. Turns out—not very far. I mix white wine with pear cider. I smoke more. My body shuts down and Phil has to carry me to bed. We fall asleep in each other’s arms until the morning, where we just lay there and talk about life. I ask him how he feels if I start dating other people. He’s cool with it. After all, he was the one who set the boundaries—friends with benefits—and it’s not fair if that holds me back from being with someone else. He asks me how I’d feel if he starts dating someone new. I tell him I’d be happy for him. As long as he calls me if that guy doesn’t treat him right, and I’ll personally beat that guy up for him. Sweet, Phil says. I confess that I like him. He asks me what I like about him. I tell him: I like that you’re beautiful. Beautiful on the outside, yes. But more so on the inside. I love the way you think. Your philosophy on life. The way you move through the world. And any guy who dates you next—whether it’s me or anyone else—he needs to know this side of you. The beautiful side. And he needs to appreciate it. He has to. Then Phil gets shy. Smiles in that way only a few people get to see. That vulnerable side. And I know I did good. I know I said something that stuck with him. So there it is. I lay all my cards on the table. I’ve confessed how I feel. I let him know that once he’s done healing, if the universe aligns and we both happen to be single, I’m happy to give us another shot. I feel like I’ve set up all the dominoes in a beautiful way. Now it’s up to him if he wants to knock them down and start an adventure with me. Or maybe not. In the meantime, we live our own lives. Our lives don’t pause for each other. They keep moving. We won’t text each other daily anymore. We don’t have to. The foundation we’ve built is strong. Solid enough that it doesn’t need constant reinforcement. We won’t see each other as often. That’s okay too. I hold him tight in my arms. I give him a hundred kisses. Because I don’t know how many more times we’ll get to do this. If we both find someone else, then the cuddles, the kisses, the hand-holding, his head on my chest—someday it’ll fade. Someday it will all just be a distant memory. And it’s sad to think like that. But that is life, isn’t it? I drive home. I think this is the closure we both needed. A breather from each other. I think I’ll see him again in a couple of weeks, just to see where life takes us. I think we’ll be different people by then. A lot can happen in a few weeks. We’ll have new stories. New experiences. New outlooks on life. Let’s see where this wild road takes us, yeah?

To the gray areas that we lose ourselves in. I am meeting up with Phil today, for the second time after our first date. He made it crystal clear that he isn’t looking for anything serious, that he doesn’t mind friends with benefits, and I’m holding my end of the agreement. I make the long drive over to his place, a one-hour drive across the city, with a six-pack of cider in the passenger seat and excitement in my heart. He meets me at the car park, asks for a hug. I give him one, warm, close, and we make our way into his apartment. He gives me the grand tour and we set up the Switch, play some. We sit a slight distance from each other, but as the night games continue, we sit closer and closer, until my head is on his shoulder. Then he does something unexpected. He interlaces his fingers with mine and we hold hands. This is quite intimate, I think to myself, but I don’t hold back. After a while, I put the controller down, pull him closer, wrap my arms around him, and we lay there on the couch, cuddling, talking about life. Three hours go by. Our tummies are rumbling, so we have dinner, crack open a few bottles of cider and wine. Soon, we’re both slightly drunk, playing Mario Kart on the Switch. It’s getting late, so we head to the bedroom. Of course we don’t sleep. I’m excited to show him clips of Final Destination since he hasn’t seen it before. After a while, I turn off the iPad, lean toward him, kiss him. He’s a great kisser. We’re drunk, and it’s one of the best feelings ever. It’s two in the morning before either of us realises. We get up, shower, head to bed. We don’t end up sleeping until four. The light from the morning sun filters through the thin blinds in his room. Phil’s got an eye mask on, snores lightly, but I’m sensitive to even the slightest light, so I’m wide awake at ten. Phil stirs, leans over, kisses me, and we go at it again. Cuddling. Kissing. The occasional blow jobs for good measure. We talk more about life. The thing is, it gets quite intimate. Much more than you’d expect from a standard friends with benefits. The way we hold each other. The way we look into each other’s eyes. The way we rub noses. It feels couple-ish, but we go with the flow. We lean into it anyway, even though we both know we’re overstepping boundaries. It feels good. But I notice something. I’ve set an emotional ceiling for myself. Cuddling him feels kind of… I don’t know. Hollow? These moments—cuddling, kissing—they’re usually laced with love and emotion. But I know where Phil stands. I know his boundaries. So I don’t let myself feel too much. I don’t let the physical become emotional. And it feels empty to me. Just skin on skin. It feels weird, but I don’t pull back. I don’t want the moment to end. And I still wonder to myself, even now, if this is healthy. I was meant to meet Angelo for our second date today, around 3 or 4pm. It takes about an hour to drive home. Angelo sent me a good morning message but I haven’t replied. It’s 2pm and I’m still at Phil’s. A part of me wants to stay. At 3pm, Angelo sends a message saying he’s got a stomach ache. My heart drops for a second. I have a feeling he made it up because I didn’t reply to him sooner. A second later, I’m excited at the chance to stay longer with Phil. I don’t leave his place until 6pm, after having dinner together. The next day, I don’t hear back from Angelo. I haven’t heard from him since. A part of me thinks I’ve fucked up. That I chose Phil over someone who was showing up for me. But another part is glad it ended the way it did. I’ve been feeling like Angelo and I were surface-level. Like the seed we planted was on shallow ground. And when the hypothetical rain came, it was washed away. Phil and I still text every day, though I’m setting boundaries. I can feel myself falling for him, which I know is a bad idea. He’s already said he isn’t looking for anything serious. I send him one message a day. Just an update. What I’ve been up to. Wishing him well. Sometimes it’s a little flirty. Always warm. Always honest. I don’t know where things are heading between Phil and me. But I hope it’s someplace healthy. For both of us.

To the ache of connections. Today is the launch day of Switch 2. I sit in my room, playing Welcome Tour, a game that introduces the hardware in the form of minigames. It’s fun as hell, and I suddenly want to share this experience with someone. To tell them how cool this new piece of technology is. To geek out with me. I turn around, look at my empty room, and there’s no one here except me and the sound of my Switch. I feel a pang of sadness. I wish someone was here, right now, to experience this with me. I don’t feel like playing anymore, so I turn it off, go to sleep, if only so I don’t have to feel this uncomfortableness any longer. The next day, I’m in my room and there’s this movie I’ve been wanting to watch for a while now—Final Destination: Bloodlines. I could watch it on my own, sure, but I think to myself that it’s a lot better to watch it with someone. I usually watch movies now on my iPad, cuddled up with someone, talking about the cinematography, the script, the story, the ending. I think to myself that I’ll wait. I’ll wait until I find someone to watch it with me, because the experience is better that way. But it’s been weeks now, and that hasn’t happened. So I decide to watch it anyway. The movie is good, but I can’t help thinking it could’ve been better with company. I noticed that in the past couple of weeks, my life has been pretty busy. The transition in work. The lead-up to finishing my massage course. Dating. I haven’t had time to slow down—not really. And now that things are easing up, with the course finishing, not seeing anyone, and work being stable, everything is catching up to me again. And I’m left here, confronting my feelings. Loneliness is a feeling I’ve made peace with. I’ve sat with it. I’ve walked with it. I’ve learned to hold it gently. And I’m not sure if this is the feeling I’m feeling now. I don’t feel abandoned by the world. I don’t feel abandoned by the people around me. There are many sources of love in my life—work, friends, family, myself—so what is this feeling that keeps knocking at the door? I realised it has been longing all along. Longing is when I crave the space to share my experience with others. Because it’s ten times better than doing it by myself. Because it means something when it’s shared. And I wonder to myself—does longing mean I’m ready to date again? I think I’m close. But not quite there yet. Because deep down, I know I’m still relying on someone else to make the moment better, to make the story brighter, to make my life fuller. When really, the person who can do all that is me. And I’m still learning. Still learning to do that. Still learning to be the one who shows up. I’m getting a little better at it each day. These days, I’m learning to do more on my own. I’m learning not to wait for someone else before I give myself permission. Because the truth is, there might not be anyone coming. And if I keep waiting, I might miss out. I might miss out on living a full life. On living this one beautiful, absurd, aching life that I already have. I’m beginning to see that a partner in my life is a bonus. A beautiful addition. Not the foundation. Not the reason. Just someone to walk beside me through an already full and fulfilling life. I think when I’m finally comfortable being alone with myself, truly alone, I’ll be ready to share the wonder of living with someone else. So that we can experience it together. Laugh together. Hold space for each other. But even then, I’ll know—if it ends up just being me, I’ll still be alright. I’ll still be whole.

I got into a creative writing mode and wrote this. Please enjoy 🙂 — The year was one of melting ice cream and broken air conditioners. Archie Banks sat on the edge of the river that had once been lined with daisies, now reduced to nothing more than weeds and pieces of broken branches. He rolled up his checked shirt, skipped a few rocks, and as the clouds darkened, he held an old vintage photograph of a beautiful woman in one hand, creased and weathered by time, almost faded. Parts of him resembled her, the smile mostly, bright as the moon, though these days it looked more like an upside-down crescent. Drops of liquid splashed and danced on the photo. He wiped the image and his face, and the clouds wept too, softly, then much too strong. And that was when he saw it. A body. Face down. He froze. It passed him by, and for a moment he held his breath, face whiter than the veneer teeth his stepmother always flashed when she wasn’t busy chasing him with the broom. He did what I or any sensible child would do: made a dash for it. To home, I mean. Little feet echoed through the woods, stumbled twice, but made it back in one piece, more or less. Home. “And where in God’s name have you been?” his stepmother asked, reaching for a tough leather belt. Her favourite. But Archie was quick on his feet, made a dash for his room, slam, lock, under the covers. He began to weep, and despite the banging and yelling, soon fell fast asleep. The next day. School. “Has anyone heard of the boy who cried wolf?” Mrs. Sunny asked with a frown. The class groaned. “Well,” she said, “there are lies we tell people for attention, until the lies themselves are the ones that destroy us.” “I don’t think that’s how the story goes, Mrs. Sunny,” said one of the children. “Well, if you can do a better story, be my guest,” Mrs. Sunny said, frowning. “My pleasure.” And for the next ten minutes or so, that child stood in front of the class and told the most brilliant story, but Archie was in a world of his own. He thought about the riverbank, and he thought about the body. But most of all, he thought about going back to investigate. And so he did. But the body was not there. Of course it wasn’t. It had probably rotted away or been eaten by a bear. It might be of great interest to you to know that this story took place in Canada, where bears did these sorts of things, the carnivorous ones, not the ones you might meet in a gay club, if you were into that sort of thing. He contemplated under the beating sun what he should do, whether to tell someone or to investigate. But who would believe him? He asked himself the question found in the title of this story. He decided, then, to follow the river for as long as his little feet could carry him. Perhaps he might find clues. Somewhere on the horizon, the sun was packing her bags for the day. Archie knew he shouldn’t have wandered this far from home, but he could always follow the river back, one bend at a time. The ache of the truth compelled him to continue, even if only to convince himself. And just as the thought of giving up crept as high as the full moon that night, he saw something that made him scream. The body. This time, Archie did not hesitate. He did not hesitate to step into the river, soaking his clothes. He did not hesitate to approach the body, even when he knew deep down who it was. And he did not hesitate to run when the dead body in his arms was none other than himself. His face was neither rotting nor bloated, but one of calmness and serenity. Graceful, even. He reminded Archie of an alternative life, perhaps in another universe where things might have turned out differently, happier, with his mum. Or in another universe where his pain ceased to exist, to finally have peace. He held the body up, and the moonlight shone her brilliance onto their faces, before the body faded. He took the picture of his mother and unfolded it. The image was broken by the creases, stained by years of tears, worn thin by the hands of a boy who had never truly known how to let go. He would often whisper to himself that everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn’t, that smiling through the pain would make it easier, because that’s what people expected him to do. And the thing with lies is, if you tell yourself enough times, perhaps you would believe it too. He had become the boy who cried wolf, even when no one was there to hear his cries but the wind on lonely nights, through the covers, under the stars. And the wolf. Who is the wolf but the truth he’s too scared to name? Grief dressed in black, disguised as his shadow, following him relentlessly. It was time. The picture fluttered onto the river, drifted away, and carried with it the body of the boy who had grieved. *** The light of the house shone brightly as he approached. His dad sat on the porch, embraced him when he arrived. He did not ask where he’d been or what he’d been up to. His face was wet. Eyes swollen. “Your stepmother,” he said, “was eaten by bears.” “The carnivorous ones?” Archie asked. “Or the ones you find in a gay club?” He raised an eyebrow, then knitted them tightly. “The former one,” he assured him. “It’s just us now,” he said. And for the first time in a long while, Archie’s smile was as full as the moon on that summer night.

To the part of ourselves that lingers. A day after James and I stopped seeing each other, I went back on the Hinge app and started going through the backlog of guys who had liked me during the three weeks I’d been off the app—because I was dating James. One guy in particular stood out. His name was Phil (short for Phillip with two Ls), and out of everyone I replied to, I secretly hoped he would be the one to text me back. Fortune had it—he was the only one who actually did. We connected deeply, on so many levels. Mutual interests like gaming, movies, writing, and reading. Deep thoughts. Long messages. Quick wit. All of it. We scheduled a date for the upcoming Saturday, and in the days leading up to it, we exchanged texts and even had a phone call that lasted three hours. When the day arrived, we met at a restaurant called Universal on Bygone Street in the city—halfway between us. We live about an hour and twenty minutes apart, seventy-five kilometers to be exact. I felt comfortable within the first five minutes of meeting him. We talked about our lives, our careers, relationships—everything in between. To both of us, the date went extremely well. There was just one problem. Philip had recently come out of a seven-year relationship. It’s been just three months. He told me this upfront, even before the date, and gave me the choice to continue or not. I said yes—I was happy to go along for the ride. But I had my doubts. Can someone truly move on after just three months from something that deep? Is the heart really healed enough to let someone else in? I didn’t have to wonder for long. The next night, he sent me a message saying that while he had a really great time, he needed to be honest with himself. He realized he’s not looking for anything serious right now—he’s still in a healing space. And I understood. He said he’d still like to hang out, if I wanted to. When I asked about boundaries, he said he was happy with hugging, cuddling, and sex—what he confirmed as friends with benefits. I told him I was okay with that. What happened with Paul a few months ago taught me something important: to accept people for the version they are now, not the version I hope they’ll become. That means I’m not holding out hope that Phil will heal and, at the end of that process, suddenly open the door for something more. That’s a nice fantasy, but it’s not healthy. It creates pressure. It sets expectations. And it prevents me from loving or showing up for who someone is, in the present moment. So I told myself: I’ll keep living my life with him in it, as a friend, maybe something physical, but I won’t invest my heart too deeply. I’ll protect that part of myself. I’ll save it for someone special. A few days later, I met someone new on Hinge. His name is Angelo. He’s from the Philippines, eight years younger than me. I’ve dated someone with that age gap before—it was wonderful. Angelo is 27. He’s building his career, his home, his life. We vibed. We had our first date just a few days ago—home-cooked dinner, movies, a lot of cuddling. He’s already excited for our second date, which we’ve planned for next week. But here’s the truth. A part of me is still with Phil. The situation is messy as hell. I still have feelings for him. I’m being honest about that. And because of that, I can’t fully give myself to Angelo—not right now. I can feel the imbalance. The way Angelo likes me, versus how much of myself I can actually give back. It’s uneven. And I find myself caught between two worlds, two men—splitting my heart without fully cutting the tether to Phil. So now I lay here in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what to do. What would closure look like with Phil? What would surrendering myself fully to Angelo look like—for him, and for me? I take a deep breath. And I trust myself. I have faith in myself. That I’ll walk out of these woods in one piece.

To the harbours that we anchor. I’m driving home from work. The traffic is bad. The sun is setting somewhere on the horizon. And a thought occurs to me. I know what I am to people now. I am a harbour. And this is what harbour means to me: A harbour is a place for ships— ships that have been out at sea, weathered by the storm, damaged, but still able to find comfort in arriving. The harbour is a safe space. A place to dock. To rebuild. To recover. To rest. It’s a place where the ship can just be— no performance, no pretense. Where it can express its fears and hopes, its fatigue and wonder. Where it can stay for as long as it needs— until it’s ready to head back out into the open waters to conquer the world again, knowing that the harbour will always be there if it ever needs to return. In my life, Michelin—my current workplace— has become that harbour for me. In that part of the world, I’m the ship. I dock there every morning when I arrive at work. And when I clock off, when I leave for the day and head back into the world, my ship feels brand new. Fully recharged. And that— that is the space I want to offer to people. Because I know how damn great it feels to have a harbour in one’s life.

To the calm after the storm. I’ve been trying to master the art of teasing. And I’ve come to realize that it’s a very delicate dance— a dance between lighting someone up and tearing them down. The line is razor thin. And I find myself dancing on it at all times. It’s exhilarating. It’s challenging. But the payoff? The payoff is always so damn worth it that it’s worth dancing that line constantly for me. Teasing is meant to be light-hearted. It’s meant to be fun. You’re both supposed to laugh—maybe feel a little embarrassed— but never, at any point, feel hurt. Feel small. Feel insignificant. Because that’s when teasing stops being teasing. That’s when it becomes cruelty. But teasing—when done right— it connects people on a deeper level. It’s playful intimacy. A coded language. A test of wit and trust all in one breath. Lately, I feel like my teasing has crossed into flirtation. Maybe even a little witty, too. And I’m embracing that space. I’m learning to read the room, to gauge the other person’s response, and to adjust the intensity like a dimmer switch. And so far? It’s working. Really well. But I’ve noticed something important. Something crucial. Aftercare matters. Because when you run someone over with a bulldozer— even if it’s with charm and cheek— there’s going to be collateral damage. You have to know how to pick up the pieces. You have to remind them that it was all in good fun— and that you’re still there. Still present. Still holding them together. You have to remind them that they are enough. Weirdly enough, I’ve found that this same kind of aftercare extends into sex, too. I’m definitely more drawn to the rougher side of things. But I’ve learned— the best kind of rough sex always ends in softness. It’s in the way the top pulls the bottom close. The way he whispers, “You’re still here. You’re still wanted.” It’s the way he reminds the bottom that after the surrender— the degradation, the spit, the rawness— they are not worthless. That they matter. That all of it was just play. Delicious, messy, powerful roleplay. And that at the end of the day, they are still whole. Still loved. That’s what teasing is to me. The art of playfully jabbing someone while never letting them forget— they matter.

To checking in on ourselves. A wise friend of mine said something recently that stopped me in my tracks. He said, It’s important to check in with yourself— and ask, when you’re connecting with someone: How do they make you feel? Do they make you feel seen? Do they make you feel safe? Or do they make you feel small— scared, anxious, unsure? Do you feel inspired? Alive? Like you can breathe deeper? Or maybe it’s a tangle— a mix of feelings you haven’t had time to name yet. And I found that so profound, because honestly, we don’t stop to ask ourselves that question often enough. Not until the moment’s over. Not until the silence hits. Not until we’re driving home replaying everything we didn’t say. But what if we asked it in the moment? That’s what I’m practicing now— checking in. Especially when I’m around people I care about. Especially when I’m dating. When I’m with someone, I want to feel safe. Seen. Heard. I want to feel like I’m enough— not a performance, not a highlight reel, not a curated version of myself to win someone over. I want to be able to show up as me. Messy. Grounded. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes quiet. And still be worthy of love. That question— How do I feel right now?— it’s not just for people. It stretches beyond that. It applies to everything. The game you’re playing. The book you’re reading. The job you’re doing. The path you think is yours. Ask it when you’re alone. Ask it when you’re in motion, or when you’re still. Ask it mid-scroll, mid-sentence, mid-chore. Ask it when you’re about to say yes to something that deep down, you know should be a no. So next time— whatever space or interaction you find yourself in— pause. Check in. And ask yourself one simple, powerful question: How does this make me feel? And don’t rush the answer. Let it rise. It’ll tell you everything you need to know.

To overflowing containers. My whole life up until this point, I’ve always been searching for love. I used to think— romanticize— that love was something missing from me. That I was incomplete. And the world held the answer. Somewhere out there was a person who would find me, and fill the space. But over the past few years— and more recently, more profoundly— that perspective has shifted. Love isn’t missing. It’s everywhere. I love my family. I love my friends. I love writing. I love gaming. I love when people ask good questions— and when they give honest, messy, beautiful answers. I love curiosity. The kind that digs beneath the surface and asks Why do you do what you do? Who are you when no one is watching? And yes, when the time comes, I will love my partner. Not because I’m empty— but because I’m already full. I’ve realized— I am no longer searching for love in someone else. Because I am overflowing with it. It’s brimming from the top, spilling past the edges of my container. It runs down my sides, touching everything I do, everyone I meet. Now I’m looking for someone who can hold that overflow. Someone whose container is big enough— not perfect, but patched. No bottomless holes, no leaking cracks. Just someone who’s done the work, stitched their own soul back together enough to hold what I have to give. Which is a lot. And maybe— just maybe— my love can overflow his container too. ⸻ On a side note— I’ve been going on more dates lately. And the dates themselves have been excellent. But still, I keep getting the same messages: I had a great time with you, but I’m not in the right place for anything serious. Or I haven’t really been feeling the love emotion. And yeah— it stings. It disappoints me. It hurts. I’m not going to lie about that. But the hurt is short-lived. And I’ve learned to give myself a little pat on the back— because these days, I get back up faster. I don’t shield my heart. I don’t go cold. I stay open, even when it hurts. And I think a big part of that is the support behind me. The quiet anchors in my life. Family. Friends. The structure of work. The safety of home. These invisible hands— they lift me up off the floor. Every time. So I never really stay on the ground for long. Because isn’t that what love is about? It’s about choosing to open again and again, even when it would be easier to close. It’s about loving fully, knowing the risk. It’s about falling, but learning the art of getting up— softly, bravely, with both fists full of love anyway. And honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Sharp observation. You’re absolutely right—where I drop my anchor is where home is. Except, for me, “home” isn’t just four walls or a fixed address. It’s any place where I feel safe, seen, and nourished. Michelin was always a kind of second home for me—maybe not perfect, but a refuge. Maybe what I’m feeling right now is a kind of homesickness. Or maybe it’s just that I’m missing that anchor: a place I could return to every day, recharge, and then head back out to conquer the world, a little stronger each time. Thank you for helping me see that—sometimes it takes another pair of eyes to spot where the real anchor’s buried.

To the corners we have yet to explore. There are spaces in my life that are currently evolving. Spaces I’m stepping into— not for the first time, a space filled with fog. I can’t quite see what’s around me, only feel the shape of change brushing against my skin. But every day, when I talk to someone new or read a line that lingers or watch a video that jolts something loose, I learn a little more about this space. A step closer to the clearing out of the woods One of these evolving spaces is travel— and I want to save that for another day. Because today, I want to talk about the shifting space of my career. I left Michelin about two weeks ago. It was bittersweet. Sadness, yes. But also a wild pulse of excitement— the kind that dances behind your ribs when you’re about to leap. A sense of freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time. I didn’t really have a solid plan. Just a loose sketch of doing a bit of content creation, teaching fitness classes on the side, with the ultimate dream of becoming a personal trainer on a cruise ship. And now that I’ve tasted that freedom— really tasted it— I’ve realized something painful but clarifying: I’m not cut out to be an entrepreneur. I had a hunch before I left. Because I’d tried it ten years ago, as a personal trainer, a sole trader, and I knew even then that it wasn’t in my blood to be that lone wolf chasing his own brand. But I figured—hell, maybe a decade has changed me. Maybe I’ve grown enough, sharpened my tools enough to carry that weight now. But these past two weeks have done nothing but confirm what I already knew in my gut— I work better as a co-pilot. A collaborator. A gear in something greater than myself. I also realized that Michelin was more than just a job. It was an anchor. A sanctuary. A goddamn playground. It was where I moved my body, lost myself in music and podcasts, laughed with coworkers, mucked around, and somehow got paid to be present. And most days, it didn’t even feel like work— it felt like play. Right up until the very end. It was also a place I went to to unravel my thoughts, dissect them, and stitch them back together before the end of each shift. A ritual I didn’t even know I had until it was gone. And now, without that anchor, I feel adrift. I sleep in. I waste time. I spend half the day doing absolutely nothing, then try to cram some productivity into a fleeting two or three hours. And I feel—truly— a part of my soul shrinking in this air where others seem to thrive. But to me, this much freedom isn’t a gift. It’s suffocating. And so, I’ve realized something else— something I wish more people would say out loud: I work really well under time restraint. One of the best things about Michelin was that it took away eight hours of my day. Another eight went to sleep. Which left just eight hours to live— to create, to connect, to dream. And that restraint? It fueled me. It gave me urgency. It made me move. But when you hand me twenty-four hours of freedom, I unravel. Because I’m too efficient when I need to be. I know I don’t need the whole day to make something great— I only need two or three hours. Which means the rest gets wasted. I get wasted. Time gets heavy when it isn’t held. Which is why, next week, I’ve decided to walk back in. To that factory. To that space. To drop anchor not as a step backward, but as a strategy. Ironically, I need something stable to set my sails free. To move forward into this ocean of freedom with something steady beneath my feet.