personal reflections on healing, solitude, writing, home, and the small moments shaping my life.
there are 33 chapters here. no rush, i’m happy you’re here.
in the notebook
i don't believe in love at first sight. I believe in love at first debate, first argument, first inside joke, first genuine laughter after a lifetime of sadness. i believe in love at first heartfelt conversation, first completely comfortable un-awkward silence. I believe in love at first
in the notebook
i have been creating collections of black and white images. in the coming days and weeks, you will see a lot of them alongside scattered pieces of writing that may not have any meaning, or be focused on anyone in particular. some of them lack an obvious ending. some end
in the notebook
as the city turned quietly toward April, the world began losing its signal to me. there are voices i will never hear again, conversations that existed only once and then disappeared forever. every so often, old scenes return from the deepest rooms of my mind and flicker there like an
in the notebook
i came back to the city carrying an invisible basket filled with old goodbyes, unanswered questions, and all the things i never got to say. after growing used to accepting these cruel little truths, somewhere between blurred nights and drinking until i blacked out, i learned how to hold myself
in the notebook
there is one thing my father taught me that i have never forgotten. "no matter what happens, you must remain kind." other people may be selfish. cruel. cunning in small and ugly ways. they may twist the truth and invent excuses to hide the insecurities they cannot bear
in the notebook
my father spent his life preparing me to arrive in this world like a warrior. years later, when we went drinking with his friends, he had almost stopped introducing me as his daughter. instead, he would gesture toward me with that familiar pride in his voice and say, this one
in the notebook
whether they are the days i return to Saigon just to soothe my own hurt, the days i come back to be spoiled and find warmth in the arms of my friends, or simply the days i return just to stand there, lost and alone in the middle of a
in the notebook
when i met your cousin, she told me that sadness had been running through your family for generations, and that it had shaped you into the tough, guarded person you are today. she then began telling me the stories from your past, the ones that had stayed hidden in the
in the notebook
i'd like to think that you're still at your own place, going on random trips like you always did. perhaps that's also how i've learned to excuse your absence from my life. maybe one of these days, you'll call me