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The Elephant

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The Elephant

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I have been blessed with a perfect memory. Not the kind that recalls math formulas or reminds me to return the sweater you left at mine but the kind that remembers how it felt when your fingers accidentally grazed my forearm. I remember the way you looked at me that one time, the crack in your voice when you told me what happened. I remember the moment exactly, how it felt, entirely, perfectly.

I have memories from as early as three years old. Some people tell me that’s impossible, that I must have invented them. But how could that be, when I’ve had them for as long as I’ve been conscious? There’s never been a version of my life without them. And if they’re made up, then how is it that my mother remembers them too?

I can still remember the sounds of the waves crashing as my mum put me in bed in our wooden beach house, how it lulled me yet also terrified me. The head of the snake my father beheaded on the step of my childhood bedroom, the way the ants crawled out of its mouth and the its dead eyes staring back at me. I will remember my mother’s screech before he did it, begging him to not kill it because it is forbidden in our culture. The feeling of deep joy to see my father come home from work, I still feel his strong hands holding me tight. I also remember those same hands yanking me off the floor after I had ripped his cigarettes open thinking they were little gifts. How my little fingers burned when I decided that the chilli needed a bath in the bathroom sink. The feeling of sneezing while eating my mother’s mushroom omelette in the morning and spitting it all over the place every time I sat on the sunny side of the table, because even then, sun rays made me sneeze. The deep frustration I felt when I’d see my own shadow because I hated how my curly hair looked as I tried to rip the strands off my head. I remember the way he enjoyed the very mediocre cookies my mother and I baked, how hard and sweet they were, how he told me I did a good job. How proud I felt in that moment. I remember the love I had for them both and the love they had for each other.

I remember the day he left us, the day she ran to the beach to find him. The fear and confusion of having to sleep at the neighbours for a few days. The smell of their room when it was only her, how unpleasant it was, like as if her tears had a scent. Oh god the pain, in her voice as she held my tiny head in her hands and how irritated I felt for some reason. I will forever recall the moment I understood that he wasn’t coming back. The moment she couldn’t accept it and ran towards to waves to try and join him. And it was like in that moment, my very little self decided that all I could do was remember as it was the only way to keep him alive somehow. 

I can only speculate that keeping his memory so vividly alive has, in turn, trained my brain to remember everything. It’s a habit I’ve practiced for so long that forgetting now feels almost impossible. In many ways, it’s a gift. I’ve become the keeper of happy times, the key to memories others struggle to recall. When we finally sit down for coffee after months apart, I bring up that one story, and I love watching their faces light up as the sweetness of the moment returns to them. It warms my whole being to see them so touched by the fact that I would remember such detail because it lets them know that I care and I care to remember. 

Being in love with a memory like mine can be magical, it’s a strength that makes me a better partner. The small things you say, even when you’re just muttering to yourself about picking something up from the store, stay with me; I’ll remember and bring it home to you. The way your face lit up that one time I made you tea is enough for me to keep doing it, just to see that flicker of joy again. And the harder things too — I’ll never mention that family member again, because I could tell, from the way your body tightened without a word, how deeply it hurt. My memory allows me to love completely, and to love right. And when I miss you, I’ll remember how your sleepy hand felt resting on my tummy this morning and the way your lashes looked up close when I woke before you, and I’ll close my eyes and remember the smell of your sheets and it’ll be like I was still right there with you. 

Like most beautiful things, this kind of memory carries weight, it haunts, it hurts. Sometimes it feels like a curse, because memory does not choose sides. It lets me recall the warmth of your kiss, but also the ache of the last one. I lie there after it’s all over, trapped in the loop of what was, feeling the ghost of your hands that are no longer there. Your voice, still soft and gentle, repeats itself in perfect rhythm, like a record that won’t stop skipping. My heart keeps falling to my gut, again and again, just as it did the first time you told me. 

I bite my tongue when I meet someone new and feel myself starting to fall, holding back from asking them to please be careful, please be gentle — it’s hard for me to forget. But, I do not say anything at all.

Sometimes it feels like no one understands how isolating it is to be the only one who remembers. As if I were the sole witness to something that never really happened. The pain they caused isn’t real to anyone but me because no one else remembers it. Their words and actions still echo, cutting into me over and over again. And when I try to mention it, even lightly, and they respond with “I said that?”, I realise that I was the only one who suffered. That moment wasn’t shared, it was mine alone. 

I have no choice but to remember. I carry everything with me as life goes on, the good and the painful alike. Sometimes it feels heavy, like being followed by ghosts of my own making, a chronic nostalgia that demands effort just to stay present. But it’s worth it, because I get to keep the sweetest memories too the ones that still glow inside me, shaping the young woman I’ve become. I gather them the way I once gathered seashells and small dead crabs on the beach, my father nearby, watching me with that quiet, knowing smile.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, November 2025

Germination, Anthesis & Phototropism

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Germination, Anthesis & Phototropism

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I am met every morning with a living painting nestled in my door frame right in front of my bed. It’s hues, textures and minimal movements vary depending on the time and the tides but it is always the same. There sits the little sailboat, peacefully floating on the LaHave River, while the towering trees across the way make me feel like a tiny ant among the moss. My days, like the view I wake to, repeat themselves with indifferent precision. Sometimes, there are brief ruptures, a visit to the market, breakfast at the Rosebay. I had just spent three months in Europe, packing and unpacking my suitcases, crawling from house to house. I felt a sense of relief when I finally put my clothes in the closet knowing that the next time I will pack again will be in at least a few weeks. You’d think I was running away from something, maybe I am.  

It had been colder than usual for the month of August in East LaHave, which I didn’t particularly mind after the many heatwaves experienced in Paris, where my shirts clung to me, sweat dribbling down my back as I biked down Boulevard République to meet my friends at Martin Boire et Manger. 

The sounds here were what Earth was meant to sound like, a beautiful symphony between the blowing wind, the dancing leaves, the sloshing waves and the buzzing bees. I have seen no planes flying above us, only seagulls and flying among us are the most little hummingbirds feeding off the flowers. 

I spend certain mornings soaking myself in the cold water, it feels like a shock at first but slowly a sense of warm calm takes over and there my mind goes numb. Once I get out, I sit still on the sand as the sun slowly loosens up my cold tight skin. I take a moment to myself and think about my eventful summer and how many relationships sprouted and bloomed under the sun. Or the ones that feel like they’d never change that require little to no watering to forever feel like home. Then there were the ones that grew stronger and the ones that slowly wilted away. Of course, there were also the relationships, once a canopy of closeness, stretched gently toward the light. a quiet reaching that, over time, created a little more space than there was before.

I found these different shifts and movements interesting and how intense it had all been, how I was so immersed in it unaware of it all, until I unrooted myself and what felt like a blink of an eye was met with pure isolation. 

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Germination

I looked at the back of the Uber driver’s head as I climbed in the car, “he looks hot”, I said to R who surprised me at the airport after I had been away for months. I greeted him, but he didn’t answer, I figured that maybe the sound of my voice was drowned by the French rap music that was blasting. I was delirious from my seventeen hour flight and couldn’t believe I was back in the city I loved most. I was overwhelmed by how happy I was to be back with my best friend. The driver announced that he had to stop and get gas, as he stepped out, I was eager to see how he looked like, I couldn’t see him in the rear view mirror earlier, his cap covered his face. When I finally turned around to see who had been driving us, my heart stopped. 

Around 16, I discovered his music on SoundCloud after hours spent scouring the internet for new sounds—a teenager dreaming of life beyond the little island I called home. Listening felt like a form of escape, a way to imagine what kids my age might be hearing all over the world, as if it brought me a little closer to them. I dreamed of Paris and imagined that every teenager lived like the characters in LOL by Lisa Azuelos (the original French version, of course—not the one with Miley Cyrus). I pictured them walking around late at night, smoking cigarettes by historical sights, wearing skinny jeans, and holding hands in the pockets of their winter coats. They’d make out everywhere—girls’ hair plastered to their partners’ faces as the winter wind whipped through some park, or maybe it was a quick boob grab-kiss combo in someone’s kitchen during a house party in the 7th arrondissement, thrown while their wealthy parents were off hiding in the countryside for the weekend.

I just found the idea of teenage years in the city, magical. I also only kissed one boy by then, who also made me give him a handjob in some dodgy abandoned house, I got so icked out, I didn’t speak to him ever again. 

I dreamed of teenage romance. 

Going to a French school in Bali, some of my classmates were from Paris. They’d talk about their friends back home and show me their social media profiles. It made me fantasise about Parisian boys—they seemed effortlessly cool, handsome, always well-dressed. There was this casual, detached charm about them that I found magnetic—like so many teenage girls probably did.

I only listened to only two of his songs, they were on repeat for a little while. It felt special to me. It felt like I had discovered a little gem—my secret.

A few years later, I cannot recall which year it was but I had already moved to Paris—I found myself at some random house party that spontaneously happened after a rowdy afternoon at  Jeannette. I walked to the kitchen to serve myself a drink, and there I recognised him, I didn’t really keep up with his music after high school. “Are you that guy who makes music?” “Yeah, that’s me”, “Sick, I used to listen to you in high school”. It didn’t take long to see he was a character—quick, witty, and effortlessly funny. 

I didn’t think of him much at all, I only would run into him occasionally at different bars or parties, with a swift hello and nothing more.

Everything changed when he invited me to the screening of his latest project at the Silencio des Prés cinema last year — a visual accompaniment to his new album. I got the time wrong and showed up too late, completely missing the show. I was bummed as I was very excited to see his evolution as an artist. We passed each other on the staircase, exchanging awkward banter—the foundation of all our past interactions. I told him I missed it all, he told me that there would be no second chances, I asked if he’d play it for me again and he told me that maybe he would. We smiled. I thought he looked handsomely ridiculous—in the best way—with his baseball cap tossed on top of a sharp business suit. 

The cinema transformed into a club, with guests dancing between the rows of red chairs. Drinks were flowing, music was blasting, lights dimmed. I had gotten to know one of his close friends over the years as well, who also made music and had asked me to be apart of his music video, which never happened. I never usually like to indulge in lust with men I have not gotten to know privately first, but something took over me that night. His friend and I danced in each other’s arms and sang the lyrics to “Prototype” to each other. When the cinema party ended, we were not ready to call it a night, someone suggested the Pamela, an underground night club. 

We made our way to the club, when his friend stopped me from walking letting the group pass us. He asked if he could kiss me, I nodded yes. There he kissed me under the Parisian yellow lights of the quiet streets of Saint Germain Des Près. All I could think about was that I wish it was him instead. 

A few months later, I ran into him at a bar and had given him Brookies (a mix of a brownie and a cookie) I carried with me in a ziplock bag. He really liked them and that is how we started having quick conversations through instagram afterwards. I had seen that he was going to DJ at fête de la Musique and announced that he would play Black Eyes Peas, which is arguably one of my most favourite music groups of all time. I responded to the story post and told him that it would be my dream, he told me to come and said that he’d play 7 black eyed peas songs if I wanted to. 

The night came, R and I went to his DJ set at 11 PM and as promised he played all the songs I could ever dream of. The rain started pouring—a refreshing relief after hours of dancing in the thick, humid heat. In moments like that, I felt grateful to be young, full of energy, able to feel everything so deeply and let it all out through wild, aimless movement.

Once that was over, still filled with energy he offered to take us to his music studio to keep the party going, R had to work the next day, so we walked her home. 

Then he told me to sit on his lime bike, which I firmly declined out of fear we’d crash but he told me to trust him. I guess I was drunk enough to finally agree. I screamed and laughed all the way, as he huffed and puffed behind me trying his best to get us there safely, which he managed. His friends joined us, and there we stayed dancing sloppily to music with me laughing at him most of the time. 

Some of his musician friends jumped into impromptu jam sessions, playing whatever instruments were around, while he grabbed the mic and started freestyling—rapping random words, some dedicated to me. 

In a blink of an eye it was 7 am and the sun was up. We found out we lived 5 minutes away from each other this whole time. So we decided to walk home. The city stirred awake, last night’s celebration still lingering in the scattered party cups and crumpled trash glinting in the early light. We slipped out before the street cleaners arrived. Paris felt hungover. In true French fashion, he asked me if I wanted a croissant from the bakery, instead I asked for a pain au chocolat please. We walked side by side, and had a banter-less conversation for the first time. I honestly don’t really remember what we talked about and it all felt like haze. When we finally arrived in front his place, he looked at me and asked if I’d like to come in. I told him, I couldn’t because well, a friend of mine had already expressed that she had a crush on him—which was true. And I couldn’t possibly break the bro code. I also felt uneasy about the fact that I went home his friend earlier that year and something about it made me feel weird. I had already categorised him as a no-go for those two reasons despite the undeniable attraction I had for him deep down. 

Our friendship bloomed over the months, I would come over sometimes in my pyjamas to play video games and eat snacks and go home. Sometimes we’d meet up at the park and just talk about all sorts of things, from music to our ambitions as future parents. Our butts itching on the grass as we took in the sun rays on a wonderful warm fall day. 

He always had a pleasant face—soft eyes framed by thick, baby-cow lashes, and a smile that bordered on movie-star charming. I’m not usually into blond men, but his dirty-blond hair suited him, highlighting the subtle flush of red in his complexion. His voice was comforting, and his laugh had a way of making everything seem funnier. He expressed how it was lovely to be able to have this relationship with me, how we could just talk and do nothing else, I agreed. I think we settled on being friends and were happy with that. 

I had made the decision to move back to Bali that fall to start my business and blog and left abruptly, he found this out on social media and asked me if when I’d be back, I told him I didn’t know. 

And so I spent the next few months back home, focused on building my new career. We still talked now and then—little story replies, bits of banter. He’d ask if I knew when I’d be back, slipping in jokes that hinted he loved me and missed me, and I’d play along.

He kept asking me when I’d come home and I’d still tell him that I didn’t know. Until one day, I did. He kept asking me about details of my flight which I found odd because it wasn’t like we were close to the point where he’d be interested in that type of information. 

It all made sense, when I realised he was the “Uber Driver” filling up the gas tank. I hopped out of the car and gave him a big hug. I was so touched from this kind gesture, especially when I found out that it was initially his idea. I didn’t realise how much he cared for me and this made me question how much I cared for him. 

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He took me to the cinema to watch Lilo & Stitch, and somewhere in the dark, I don’t know what came over me—but I reached for his hand. When we stepped outside, the sun was setting and everything was glowing and orange, like the last good day before the end of the world in a dystopian film. We walked past a salsa dance group by the canal. He extended his hand, inviting me to dance. So there we were—dancing clumsily to Latin music in the middle of seasoned pros, as I belly laughed through it all. We shared a beer at a local bar and spoke more about our upbringing and how much it had affected us. I was impressed by his growth and the way he had handled his traumas and how in tune he was with his feelings. Nothing about it was performative, and I know performative when I see it. He was raw and real. We walked home—our favourite activity to do together at this point, sharing earbuds, listening to our favourite songs, dragging our feet in a sleepy Paris. When we finally made it home, I told him yet again that I wouldn’t come up. I saw a little disappointment in his eyes, but as always he remained graceful as I kissed him on the cheek goodbye. 

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I had to leave again this time to Italy for a few weeks and barely got to see him before leaving. But when I came back, I had the pleasure to house sit take care of his cat while he left on vacation. I grew to his cat love very much. It was funny to be in his home again without him present. I wondered what he’d be doing in here alone, where he’d write his lyrics. I wondered if he danced alone his boxers like I do. I wondered if he cried a lot listening to his vinyls. He was so tidy as a boy, which I liked. 

When he finally came home, we spent more time together and I believe this was all thanks to his fat cat, the reason I’d come visit more often. 

He invited me to hang out in this huge apartment he was staying in for a little while. There we laid on the same bed 2 feet apart watching my favourite movie the world “Super Bad”, where he discovered the magical McLovin. Then we ran out to eat chocolate crepes and as usual, he walked me home. The most mundane thing felt like a movie scene when around him because I have come to understand that just like me, he romanticised everything.

I was starting to have these unwanted feelings creep up on me and have found myself almost being a bitch to him at times to counter them. But that never phased him, it almost amused him. He had no ego. Which made me fancy him even more. 

A few days before having to leave to North America, I had invited him to dinner at a rooftop restaurant that my old roomy worked at (I can never pass a good discount). I stopped by the studio where he was recording his new project and sat on the couch, listening to the voice I’d known before I ever saw his face—still just as soothing. He kindly listened to my input and asking for my opinion even though I had no knowledge in music whatsoever. Then we rode the metro together, knees innocently touching, in comfortable silence. 

We were the goofiest pair in that rooftop restaurant—wide-eyed and excited to try every fancy dish, surrounded by iconic landmarks and a view that felt almost unreal. We didn’t want it to end there, so we walked up the hill searching for ice cream and the first apartment we met. We stood in front of the building recalling that very night, exchanging points of views. We kept climbing until we reached Montmartre, grabbing beers from the iconic épicerie featured in Amélie, before settling onto one of the classic Montmartrois steps, gazing out at the summer funfair lighting up the Tuileries below. There we sat for hours talking. Talking from the children in our families to the deaths of our fathers. 

A couple sat on the steps below us, kissing like they’d been holding back all night—eager, almost ravenous. We watched them, amused, laughing at how intense it was but also thinking it was kind of sweet. I turned to him and said, “Our first kiss is going to be so awkward—just like us.”  “Like this,” I added, before leaning in and mock-kissing him, playfully pressing my tongue against his lips in the most ridiculous way, then throwing my head back in laughter. He just looked at me for a second, a little caught off guard—then burst out laughing with me.

When our butts eventually couldn’t stand sitting on the cold hard stone, we decided to go home. Mid-way before reaching the bottom. He grabbed me by the arm, then cupped my face before landing a soft kiss on my lips. He drove us home on a little moped, Childish Gambino playing through his iPhone speaker. I pressed my chest against his back, our heads separated only by the helmets. It was cold, but I felt warm. 

This time, I went up with him.

Just a couple of days later, I had to say goodbye again—without knowing when I’d be back. “I’m sad,” I said, our fingers laced together in front of my door.
“Why?”
“Because I have to leave again… so soon.”
He smiled gently. “I waited a whole year for you. I’m sure a few months won’t hurt.”

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Anthesis

Jade R and I didn’t get very close until a year and few months ago, but sparks were felt from the moment we sat in some girl’s house talking about astronomy books as the other girls were snorting crushed up pills in the back. 

Despite not knowing each other that long, our bond feels like it was written in the stars and it was meant to be. I wonder if I’d ever feel so connected and close to my future partner like I do with her. I wonder if it could ever truly be healthy to become so close so quickly with someone of the opposite gender. Jade R owns a heart of gold and incredibly, traits that are rare, especially in the glamorous world she is apart of. 

She is, all at once, the luckiest and unluckiest person I’ve ever met—a living collection of life stories, some gut-wrenching, others almost surreally beautiful. She is a beautiful, walking paradox— warm yet sometimes bitter, soft yet harsh. 

She took me into her home, without hesitation, holding my hand through a transition in my life I am internally struggling with, leaving the life I am far too attached to behind. I think about the warmth I feel when she brings me a cold Hojicha in the morning, that she prepared with care, before she lights up a cigarette and serenades me with whatever notes her heart feels like playing on the piano. 

The love we had kept growing and growing so seamlessly, it feels like those friendships you make at the hotel pool when you’re seven years old on vacation. Our laughs echoed through the apartment that felt like home to me and tears were shed in her queen sized bed as her husky quietly slept nearby. Her reassurance made me feel strong and uplifted me, making me braver then I had ever been before. I will always remember seeing her small body quietly sleeping beneath the large duvets, like she had been gently washed ashore, as I tiptoed to the kitchen for some water, careful not to wake her. Or I’d come home from running errands and find her in her home studio, creating the most beautiful music—sitting in the centre of towering speakers, like Godzilla among skyscrapers. Her intimate setup makes her music feel deeply personal—like a silent cry, curled up in the corner of a bed. And I wait impatiently for her music to be shared with all the girls in the world, who will soon feel the comfort I have felt through her voice. 

I cherish our late night dog walks where we shamelessly spoke about everyone because we believe that gossiping is healthy, as we walked past the home of the former French president. How we treat her gentle giant like our own son, as I wonder what it would be like to be mothers together, if we ever decide to be. We constantly complained about how broke we were but didn’t hesitate to treat ourselves to the strip club because we both have a deep understanding of how fragile life truly is.

Jade is a breath of fresh air, the kind that fills your lungs and makes you feel alive and unburdened.

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Phototropism 

His brother was standing by the DJ booth—right in the same spot we’d seen him the year before, same day, one year later. When he noticed us, he greeted me with the big smile they both shared. “He’s around here,” he said. I made a face, jokingly. He shrugged and giggled in response.

When he finally appeared and realised I was standing there, he looked surprised—then suddenly lit up with joy. He pulled me into his arms and told me how glad he was to see me after all this time.

Something about it all felt strangely familiar, like no time had passed. It warmed my heart to see him again.

This was the third year in a row we’d been at this same event, always held on the same day. The first year, we came as a brand-new couple—everything felt fresh and full of promise. The second year, it was post-breakup, with tension still in the air and a flicker of jealousy from him when another man tried to hold my hand.

And now, here we were again.

We stood still in a sea of dancing bodies, yet it felt like we were alone. We reminisced about the days we were in love and all the things we used to do. He took my hand, gently tracing the spade tattoo on my ring finger with his thumb.

“It’s still there,” he said.
“Well, I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” I replied. “It’s pretty permanent.” Unlike us. 

There was a time I naively thought he’d be the one to put a ring there someday—maybe even laugh about the slightly botched tattoo as he did. In hindsight, it was silly of me to think so, we had only been together for such a short amount of time, but it felt real and I had never felt so strongly about a boy before. I’ve learned since then that love isn’t enough. 

We caught each other up on our love lives. He told me he’d gotten into a relationship after me. I told him I’d stayed single.

“You made it hard for me,” I admitted. “You really raised my standards.”

And it was true. He had treated me like a princess, with all these small, thoughtful gestures. I almost felt fully seen—he understood my taste, my humour and appreciated my quirks and for a young girl who’ve never felt that before, it meant the world. Until he betrayed me out of nowhere on a trip abroad. That didn’t exactly help in the trust department.

“You did too.” He calmly responded. 

There were plenty of quiet moments between us, where we simply stood and watched the joyful chaos unfolding in front of us. The flickering lights danced across our skin, staining and unstaining it in turns. We were both deep in thought, unaware of what was passing through the other’s mind.

It’s strange—almost surreal—to be acquaintances with someone who once felt like an extension of myself.  At times, it felt like we moved through the world as one, symbiotic, in step with each other. 

I’ve spent so much time replaying it all, especially the part where I didn’t realise the last day would be the last. It is truly life-changing to experience that kind of weight when pain and anger come from someone you once felt nothing but love and safety with. So many unanswered questions and even when answered, more eventually keep pouring in until you understand that answers, do not necessarily heal. 

How incredible it is to wake up one day and realise—you survived it. Even when it felt impossible, when you were sure you’d never recover, you made it through. Yes, there may still be a pinch in my heart, one that might always linger… but I think I stand taller now.

I’ve come to understand the quiet power of forgiveness and how, in the end, it freed me more than anything. I thanked him for the pain and the betrayal, “it made me grow”, I smiled.

There were moments where I wondered if we could one day be intertwined again and if there could be life growing after Slash-and-Burn. But, like to seedlings once planted side by side, we were now drawn by separate suns, bending and stretching in different directions, silently and peacefully growing. Knowing we couldn’t be growing towards the same sky. 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia/New York City, September 2025

Come Home

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Come Home

Home » Relationship

We don’t see you around much anymore.
I still remember when you first told us about him. You came running to us, eyes wide, barely able to contain your excitement—“I think I like him.”

That moment always makes me nervous.
It never ends well for you. And honestly? It never ends well for us either.

I can already picture what comes next: you showing up with tears streaming down your cheeks, skin now sticky and shining from the layers of serums and creams. We hate seeing you like that. But a small, selfish part of us feels relieved. It gives us hope—maybe this time it’s finally over, maybe this time you’ll leave him.

But you rarely do.

You come to us for comfort, to be seen, to feel what he can’t give you. And once you’ve steadied yourself, the amnesia kicks in. You return to him like nothing ever happened, like he never made you cry in the first place.

It scares us how easily you bend around him, how your every thought, every choice, now seems dictated by his moods.

I started reading about cults the other day.
Did you know a cult can be just one leader and one follower?

It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes—between what you’re in and what the textbooks describe:

“A leader who inspires both love and fear.
A transcendent belief system—not always religious—offering purpose and commitment.
A system of control.
An engine of guilt.
A framework of influence.”

You think you’re in love. But from where we’re standing, it looks a lot like worship.

It always starts smooth, the 3 month honeymoon phase. It’s so wonderful to see you so happy and appreciated. You are glowing. 

We enjoy sitting in your room as we watch you get ready for yet another big date. And yes, we will give our opinions about what top is better and what makes your ass look nice. We will be there to let you know that you have nothing to worry about, that he is a man and will not notice the very little pimple next to your left eyebrow. 

We know it probably would not last and that we will most probably be in the same position again but for another man. But, it doesn’t matter. 

He is so lucky. If only he knew about the every single “everything showers” and the contorted positions you put yourself in to shave every single crevice. The tweezers to remove any hair that is not wanted on the face. The face masks and the expensive moisturisers. 

How meticulously you put that eyeliner on and the many minutes you stand in your underwear to find an outfit that will take his breath away but “effortlessly”. Panties also strategically thought about in case things get heated. 

We kiss you goodbye and wish you a wonderful evening, to be safe and let us know if you ever need anything. Your perfume lingers as you run off to make it on time. 

Then there comes the moment you bring him around and you are proud to introduce him to your friends. As we all smile politely and silently observe him. We read his every move, his choice of words, and how he positions himself in the environment. All silently sitting there, watching him like hawks. 

You seat next to him, your eyes peeled on his face, in awe. You look at us sometimes, like you’re trying to say “Isn’t he great?” with no words. Well, my darling, we’re trying to figure that out. 

Any red flags arise, we do not want to upset or alarm you. So, we discuss amongst ourselves to see if this is something worth bringing up to you and will protect you or was it something we were overthinking. Even if we did, will the way you see him change truly? 

You seem so happy, who are we to yuck your yum? 

Slowly but surely, you come to drinks every other time, now. Then it’s a couple of times a month. We check in to see if everything’s alright, “I am just super busy at the moment”. When we do convince you to come out, it’s hard to talk to you. 

You’re somewhere else. You glance at your phone every few minutes, debating when is an acceptable time to ditch your friends. You’re anxiously awaiting to be back with him. I sit a few chairs away from you and can predict when —

Alright, guys well I’m going to go. Yeah, sorry, he’s waiting at home. It was so lovely to see you all, missed you guys! 

And poof you disappear, Lord knows when we’ll see you again. 

The big fight. 

Eyes bloodshot and snotty. A full nervous breakdown, a whole lot of confusion and deep pain. Where is this coming from? You wonder. How could he say such things? 

Many questions are thrown our way, as we rub your back and tell you that it’s going to be okay. Yet, we let you know firmly, that what he did or said is not okay, that no one who loves and respect you would say such things even out of anger. 

You’re better off ending it now, we all say. 

That very sentence makes you perk up, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. 

But I guess it’s my fault as well, I shouldn’t have, you know? 

And many excuses and self-blame regurgitated out of your mouth because this was now something you’ve got to protect. But, it is too late, we have made up our minds about him. 

Everything has settled, you’re all happy again. We still don’t see you as much but at least, you seem okay. The hangouts are still cut short and getting you to do anything is close to impossible. 

He can come, we sigh and say. And he does. 

We all can’t stand him, we notice more and more behaviours that we can not believe you are unable to notice or able to just ignore. 

He comes to everything now, and it genuinely changes the dynamic. But it’s the only way we get to see you. 

The only times we have you to ourselves is when you are crying. You are hurting because of something else he’s said. We’re getting worried, it’s getting worse. 

Now the pain is showing on your face and body, you look ill and tired. 

Now you seriously contemplate on leaving and we’re ready when you are to comfort you when the time comes, to be there no matter what. 

We can put aside the fact that you didn’t give us any of your time these past few months and only came for help. But we love you and it’s unconditional. You know this and eventually you’ll use it against us. 

Your life is crumbling apart, your relationships deteriorating , you have lost all control to save the very thing causing it all. 

But guys, we talked it out, it’s going to be okay. He said he was sorry and it will never happen again. Trust me, I have it all under control. 

You don’t. Look around you, everything is burning. 

It does happen again and it comes tenfold, we are seriously worried, we fear for your life. We fear he may hurt you beyond words or push it so far you wind up hurting yourself. 

You come and run back. Come and run back. Come and run back. 

The same words are repeated by us, in hopes to wake you up. You listen so intently to the advice and even agree. But you run right back. 

We try to remind you of who you are before all of this before him, to pick the pieces up of all the self-esteem he has shattered, struggling to hold it up in front of you. Reminding you of how wonderful you are. How talented, beautiful. Your achievements and what you can achieve. The future ahead of you. Try our best to help you picture what life can be like, if you just left. 

For a tiny moment, you too have hope. And you will motivated and empowered. 

But something always happens where you let yourself back in. 

I think you fail to understand that we are now all involved. We may not feel the pain you are enduring but we feel some of it too. Because we love you. We now live in fear for you. Anxious that the next phone call won’t come from you but someone announcing that things took a dark turn. 

That he has successfully won. 

It comes to a point where it has become too much to handle. We are put in a position where we do not want to know but we fear that leaving you alone might isolate you and tighten his grip on you. 

We feel guilt for putting boundaries, you make us feel like bad friends. But we have done what we could. 

The boundaries bring out a side of you we have never seen before, something we know is his doing. The aspects of him, you always said you hated, you start showing signs of those too. 

You start lying in order to clumsily try to keep your friends and him around. You manipulate when the lies don’t work anymore, gaslighting us into thinking we are cunts for not letting you be. 

Who are we to judge your personal life? You ask over and over again. 

You put us here. You put us here. You put us here. 

There comes to a point, where you are no longer a victim. If your life isn’t threatened if you leave, you have the choice to walk.

I empathise with you and understand the strong emotional pull the relationship can have. But, you must see things for how they are. Accept that your life will remain the way it is if you stay. No matter how many new friends you get or how many jobs you apply for. 

It may be too late when you do decide to wake up and do the right thing.

When we’ve all moved on and think we were just a source of comfort for you. That we’ve come to a point that we think we were never truly your friends and that we are filler people for whatever relationship comes your way. 

That’s the reason why we are holding on, to avoid it to be that way. 

If only you could see the way we see you. How exceptional you once were and still are, and how you made all of our lives better.

You are so loved. You are so loved. You are so loved. 

Come home when you feel ready, there’s a space on the couch for you. 

V.B, Napoli, June 2025

Death to the Cool Girl

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Death to the Cool Girl

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Right after my most recent break up, I had my “I just want to have fun and keep things light” phase which meant me dating multiple people and not expecting anything serious. I wanted to be the Cool Girl: free, spontaneous and maybe a little reckless but like, in a hot way. You’d think I would have learned something from watching the iconic Gone Girl monologue about this very topic, but I guess not. This is also obviously an interesting decision for a lover girl like myself— someone who at their core, values deeper connections, enjoys giving her attention to one person and seeks love. But I was tired of being vulnerable and brave— putting my heart out there just to get hurt. However, I also wasn’t ready to be fully left alone. So this casual dating situation, I thought, could be a good middle ground.  Fully ignoring my BPD diagnosis, I told myself that since my feelings were mine that meant I could have control over them. That if I set clear boundaries and explicitly expressed them, I would be good to go for short lived romance filled with lust and cute stories to tell my friends.

I was committed to be the Cool Girl, a man eater. I had to be chill. I had to kill the cry baby bitch in me. This girl doesn’t give a fuck about anything. She treats sex like a man— it’s just physical, it doesn’t have to be deep. She’s so free, her hair is always blowing in the wind, I picture her in biker boots and cut off shorts. She cuts her own hair and she’d look hot bald. Most importantly, she has full control, you’re not using her, she’s using you. This is modern feminism right? She’s reclaimed the power, men are here for HER pleasure. No more cute gestures, no more hand written notes or morning messages— Cool Girl has no time for that shit. 

After my pseudo mental metamorphosis, I put myself out there. I tried dating apps, speaking to people more, I even gave out my number the old fashion way— written with a dull lip liner on a piece of cigarette paper. I did feel liberated at first and excited, it was a new era. I was exploring new parts of the city while on dates and learning about things I wouldn’t necessarily be curious about on my own. I was confronted by different personalities and opinions which I found super stimulating. I’ve even reconnected with old flames from my high school days, which was sweet. Even though our lives have changed so much and we’ve all grown up, a bit of that teenage spirit still lingers when we reunite.


We could say that I did have fun and I did provide the girls with fun stories. But I cut ties with most of these guys quite fast, swiftly moving on to the next thing— unable to be entertained by anything that didn’t constantly keep me on my toes. I knew that it was commonly said that slow and steady and even sometimes boring can be signs of a healthy relationship but I was not in a place to build anything at the time, I was chasing a thrill. However, I carried the hope of finding The One with me, tucked away somewhere in my heart, but obviously I couldn’t admit this to myself because I was Cool Girl now. She doesn’t believe in love like that. 

Obviously, my fabricated desire of wanting only meaningless and casual relationships attracted truly emotionally unavailable men. And these type of men were always able to keep me on the edge of my seat, so I kept them around longer than the rest. They were clearly so uninterested in anything serious at first which made me feel comfortable, nothing real could happen, surely they won’t break my heart, I thought. We would keep things light, go on fun dates here and there. Then there would be a shift— the talks got deeper and we’re sharing intimate details about each other’s lives, forehead kisses and sleepovers. I liked it, I was not alone but I was still free. I felt like I could handle this, easy work for Cool Girl. So we’d keep this dynamic up but as a fake emotionally detached person, I slowly but surely still grew attached. I naturally would not admit this to myself. Then came the infamous ‘What are we doing?’ talk, where I had to ignore the pinching sensation in my heart as they told me they weren’t looking for anything serious. ‘Me neither,’ I’d say.

One faithful day, they’ve gotten bored. Now only text me whenever they’ve got nothing else to do, multiple cancelled dates, see them maybe a couple times a month. Because I mean, no strings attached right? They don’t owe me shit, doesn’t matter if they’ve looked at me and stroked my face like I was the love of their lives a couple of weeks ago, we said we were nothing serious! 

I had to act like it didn’t bother me when they’d only reach out only once in a while. Punish myself for wanting to do a kind gesture for someone I’ve grown to care for because for some reason caring is a sign of weakness now. Sometimes, I would slip up and the regret I would feel for being nice would eat me alive. I told myself I wasn’t standing on business enough, I had to keep the ice in my heart cold. God forbid if I messaged first or double texted. I had to keep the communication short and dry, I couldn’t sound too eager. As somebody who pays attention to details and romanticises everything, I forced myself to believe that things I would consider special weren’t special anymore. 

Before I knew it, the vines of my disregarded feelings have taken over, wrapping around me in a chokehold. I am fighting for my life over a story like. Social media posts are more calculated, messages triple checked by three different girlfriends. Long walks to try forget that it’s been weeks since I’ve seen them. Who are they seeing now? Who will they leave for? 

Nothing feels light and casual anymore. The hope I kept in my heart has come out of hiding, I’ve finally been able to admit to myself that I want them to be mine. However, the Cool Girl way to go about things is to not communicate about her feelings, Cool Girl is patient and believes that her coolness will somehow change his mind. I’ll have to keep everything bottled up and make sure nothing spills over. My feelings will scare them off, they can’t know. I can’t have them leave me because having them just a little bit is better than not having them at all. I’m trying to keep up with them, wonder how it is they can say or do things that make it really fucking seem they have feelings for me but truly have none. I try to analyse everything they say to me, hang on to any signs that they might finally like me back. I feel delusional, crazy and silently desperate. Cling on to the idea of what we could be together if they just saw how fucking cool I can be, hoping that the next time they’d see me they’ll look at me differently. I may have been indoctrinated by romcoms where men always change their minds and finally realise that she was the one all along. I’ve learned that it can happen however always a little too late when we’ve already gotten the ick. 

No matter how hard I tried to keep up, I failed to grasp one simple truth—this is just who they are. Careless and nonchalant isn’t an act for them; it comes effortlessly. While I’m drowning in heartache, for them, it’s just another Tuesday.

At the end of the day, the Lover Girl in me always wins the battle and after a long and painful fight, Cool Girl dies— leaving my true self wounded, drained and tired. I’ve tried going against my nature so many times and at different stages of my life. Building unnecessary walls that don’t end up protecting me from getting hurt anyway, just killing me slower. Maybe it’s time to embrace the Lover Girl in me. Life is filled with pain and rejection anyway, might as well make it as romantic as it can be. 

I’ll remember their favourite ice cream flavour and bring it the next time I see them. Every birthday gift will come with a five-page handwritten note, filled with all my favourite quirks about them. Every special moment will be commemorated with a keepsake, safely tucked away in a box. Every kiss, truly cherished. Every feeling, expressed loud and proud. 

Ready for BIG FAT ROMANCE. 

Vahine Blaise. Gili Air, March 2025

The Quiet Between Us

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The Quiet Between Us

Home » Relationship

“So, what was it you didn’t want to tell me?” He asked as we were driving in his father’s car. I started to cry from nervousness and maybe a little bit from embarrassment. I went to the psychiatrist for the first time a couple of days prior. My therapist recommended it; for the first time, he thought it might be necessary. I mean, looking back now, I think it was, too. I had trouble keeping my emotions from bouncing off the walls of my brain. Sleep made me, strangely enough, more tired. I knew I struggled with anxiety, but not like this, not the type that made it feel like my body weighed 1000 pounds, completely paralysing me from doing anything at all. But the one thing that bothered me most was the incessant thoughts of dying. It took over everything. I thought about the peace I would feel if I ended it all and the different ways I could do it without suffering too much. Unlike my teenage years, where I thought about all the ways I could inflict pain on myself, I now just wanted to go away peacefully. I felt like I was already hurting enough. I deserved to go away as fast as possible.

On the other hand, I feared being murdered or killed accidentally; I had to have control over how I went. I felt like I had no control over anything else. I deserved to choose when I would go. No one could take that away from me. So, I stood as far away as possible from the metro tracks in case someone with bad intentions was standing too close to me. I looked behind my back every other minute to make sure no one was trying to stab me. I smoked every cigarette with a deep fear that the one currently burning was the one that was going to give me cancer. 

The cold man with a slight lisp behind the desk looked at me straight in the eyes and calmly said, “You have BPD.” My world came crashing down because this meant dealing with this forever. This meant a constant battle with myself for the rest of my life. He prescribed me a low dosage of epilepsy medication, which apparently has side effects that can help with BPD. I was so upset with myself. I  always struggled with my mental health, and even when my family denied getting me help when I was younger, I achieved plenty of things. I was able to deal with it all, and I may have had issues suppressing certain impulsive decisions and random outbursts, but I was still functioning. Never in a million years did I think I was going to be the one on meds. I never thought it was something someone should be ashamed of, but I just didn’t want to depend on anything to be able to be “normal”. Finding this out on my late father’s birthday was also not helpful either. 

I sat silently for a moment and looked at my fingers. I felt suffocated by my seat belt, and all I wanted to do was jump out of the car. The tears kept coming, and I struggled to find the words to tell him. “Vivi, you can tell me anything. I’m here for you.” But was he going to be? After all, we’ve only been together for three months, and he’s only seen one side of me, the one everybody would like. How do I know he’s not going to leave me on the side of the road the instant he hears that I can think he is the most perfect person in the whole wide world one day and think he’s an absolute monster the next when he does something I didn’t like. Will he still be around when he realises that this means I have abandonment issues, that I’ll act certain ways because I am so scared that he’ll leave me?  How about the times I’ll have my super highs and then suddenly hit my super lows? Will he be able to keep up? 

“I have BPD.” “What’s that?” I gave him a quick rundown of what that meant. I tried my best not to make it sound too scary. He kissed me on the cheek and said I didn’t have to be scared to tell him and that he didn’t see me differently. This relieved me for a second, but some part of me knew that he believed it now, but it might not be the case when he actually experiences it. I promised myself I would do everything to hide this side of me from him, that he didn’t need to see it all. At the time, I saw this as protecting him from me, but was it actually just that fear of abandonment I mentioned earlier? 

The relationship ended five months later, but not because I had done anything. I’m sure it was the case because one of the last things he told me was, “If I had to wait for you to do something wrong to leave you, then that meant I would be with you forever.”

The relationship was a happy one; communication was clear, fights were tamed and respectful, and surprisingly, I had matured a lot and had very few impulsive reactions. I kept my word. It was odd because I was super happy, the happiest I had ever been with someone, but also terribly suffering on my own. I kept most things negative away from him and tried to keep a positive attitude at all times, and then when I went home, I could take the mask off. He could hear it in my voice at times on the phone when I wasn’t feeling well, but I always finished it with, “But don’t worry, I should be fine!”. The suicidal thoughts were incessant; the medication made me sleepy, so sometimes, when we were out together, I was fighting off the fatigue while still trying to stay present. It was a lonely fight like it has always been. Sometimes, I wish I had shared my pain with him more, but I refused to be the one to bring someone down with me. I admitted to him once when we were fighting that I didn’t share it all with him, to which he responded with “Thank you.” From that moment, I understood that he also didn’t want to hear it. It stung a little bit, and I didn’t know why then. I think because deep down, I wish he cared more and he actually wanted to know, but at least he was honest, and I should’ve seen it as a sign that the relationship would not survive for long. My mental health declined as time went on, and the medication didn’t seem to work very well. It came to a point where I found myself sitting in front of the psychiatrist again, balling my eyes out, asking him if my deep desire to die was a normal thought. He told me that no, it was not and that I would really benefit from going to a “retreat” for a few weeks. My heart sank, but I agreed. It was the last resort. I had officially hit rock bottom, and this I was deeply ashamed about. I really didn’t have any control anymore. I was scared to share a space with other mentally ill patients. The first thing I thought about was how self-harm scars so very easily trigger me, and I can’t handle seeing them even in movies. I was so afraid to see other patients with them. I was afraid of being force-fed medication. 

I naturally didn’t tell my boyfriend about this conversation, which I knew he couldn’t handle. 

Every time I hear that one line in Billie Eilish’s What Was I Made For?, “I’m sad again, don’t tell my boyfriend”, I think about this moment right here, comforted and yet deeply disappointed at the realisation that this isn’t an uncommon thing to go through as a woman. 

I missed the call from the “retreat” and ultimately decided not to go. I didn’t go because I was afraid but mainly because I was tired of letting it win. Something in me switched; a calm took over, and I have not spiralled as much as I used to ever since. The thing is, BPD is something that you can’t cure, but with the right tools, you can control it, and it only gets better with practice and time. So once I understood that I truly held the power, this changed everything for me. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I found a lot of my tools when I was “shielding” him from my condition. My fear of losing him forced me to have a grasp on my impulsivity and control over my intense emotions and the words that came out of my mouth. I practised patience when we would take some time from each other, forcing me to sit face to face with my abandonment issues, facing them head-on. When he eventually left for real, I was surprisingly okay. 

It saddens me that it took a man for me to make the effort to make the changes I needed yet I also feel this sense of pride that I am the type of person capable of wanting to better myself out of love and care for somebody else. 

I came to realise that I was too focused on doing what is “right” on my own and didn’t even think that getting support from my partner was an option for me, maybe subconsciously I thought I didn’t deserve it. I think I should’ve opened up a little more and tested the waters, communicated a little clearer still with a little caution. He on the other hand, was probably not ready to be in a relationship serious enough to have deep conversations about mental health or simply didn’t want to.

Now I wonder how it is I am supposed to balance things when I eventually get into another relationship. How do I ask for help and comfort without crossing anyone’s boundaries? Is it possible or even healthy to share everything with your partner? 

Honestly, I truly believe I won’t be able to know until I meet someone new. I feel like it’s one of those things where you learn as you go. And, having a playbook for this would be absurd because as cliché as this sounds, we are all so fundamentally different and all relationships have unique dynamics. All I know now is what it is I do not want, which to feel alone in a relationship. I do not want to feel ashamed of who I am and picking and choosing what side of me I will show and what side I will not. I’d like to know that every part of me is loved even if some can cause some complications. 

Sometimes, I wonder what my relationship would’ve been like if I had exposed myself fully to him. I even wonder if it would have flourished and if he would have loved me the same. I wonder if he struggled too and did not want to tell me because he was always committed to keeping things light. Did we both lie next to each other, silently suffering?  This is something I will probably never know. I am left with many unanswered questions but so many lessons learned. I’ve understood that hiding a huge part of myself has no benefit whatsoever, and even though I could do so in my previous relationship, it was a very short one, so god knows how long I would have realistically been able to keep that up. I had never expected him to save me and knew he didn’t have the power to do so, but I still wanted to feel like I was worthy of love despite what I was going through. It wasn’t all his fault and he did as much as he could with what was given to him. I wish I had expressed more and been brave enough even though there was a risk of him leaving me. Because at least I would’ve known that it was all real. However, I also strongly believe it is super important to understand other people’s limits, identify what things they can help you with, and what issues you should deal with with a professional because no one is capable of dealing with it all. It is unfair to expect them to do so.

Paris, March 2023