Like falling into the deep end.
And not yet knowing how to swim.

Drowning.

Like the harder you flail your arms, the deeper you sink.

The water doesn’t feel like water anymore—
it feels like weight.

Like something holding you in place.

You reach for the surface,
But it keeps moving farther away,
Like it never existed in the first place.

Every time you think you can breathe,
water rushes into your lungs—

Cold.

Sharp.

Immediate.

You scream—
But it comes out swallowed before it becomes anything real.

And then it’s just one comment.

Something small.
Offhand.

A passing sentence that doesn’t even belong to you.

About your face looking a little bloated.

Or how short you are.
Or how something just looks “off” today.

And suddenly it isn’t a comment anymore—
It’s a hand pulling you back under.

I look at myself in the mirror sometimes
And see a normal person.

Nothing special.
Nothing wrong.
Just… me.

The bathroom light hums quietly above me.
The air is still.

Steam from the sink lingers in the corners of the glass.

My reflection doesn’t feel distant.
It feels close enough to touch.

And for a moment,
it feels real.

But other days—
It’s like the mirror wakes up before I do.

Same face.
Same room.
But something in it feels uncanny.

The light turns harsh without changing.

My skin looks flatter.
My features feel like they’ve been outlined too sharply—

Like someone traced over me
with too much pressure.

I lean in closer.
Fog from my breath clouds the glass for a second.

Like distance is the problem.

It isn’t.

The closer I get,
The more detail appears that I didn’t ask for.

Small things.
Too many of them.

Like my face is no longer a face—
Just a collection of imperfections.

Problems waiting to be solved.

And I don’t notice the shift.
Not when it happens.

Only that it has happened.

I can’t tell when it stopped being me,
And started being something I’m supposed to fix.

The trajectory of my day,

It’s decided right there.

By a glance.

A meaningless glance.
And suddenly it feels like judgment carved into glass.

So I put everything into looking “good.”

Tailored clothing that sits just right on my shoulders.
Threads smoothed down until it stops feeling like fabric.
Curated accessories placed like they matter more than they do.
Fragrance lingering in the air like proof.

Grooming done in repetition, not confidence.

A formula I convince myself will hold everything together.

For a while,
It works.

Or at least—
It muffles it.

The silence feels like relief.

But once the shirt comes off,
The fragrance fades into the room,
And my hair falls back the way it naturally does—

It returns.

Not loudly.

Just there.

Waiting in anything reflective.

Windows.
Screens.
Even polished metal.

Closer than before.

And somehow,
It always looks more certain than I do.

I see people.

In shape.

Healthy.

Happy.

Moving through places that feel warmer than the ones I stand in.

And I feel it all at once—
Admiration.

Envy.

I can hold both without either cancelling the other.

I’m happy for them.
I am.

But there’s still that quiet thought sitting underneath it.

Like something underwater that refuses to surface.

A voice that doesn’t feel like mine,
But knows my name anyway.

Telling me that what they have,
Isn’t within reach.

Not for me.
Not like that.

I try to silence it.
To turn away from it.
To fill my head with anything else loud enough to cover it.

But it doesn’t leave.

It just learns my rhythm.

And slowly,
It stops sounding like something outside of me.

So when other people feel like this,
I tell them the truth.

I tell them what I see.

That they’re not as flawed
as they think they are.

That their reflection is not a verdict.
That their mind is louder than reality.

I try to make them see themselves.

Without the distortion.

Without the water.
Without the glass.

So maybe, just maybe—
If I keep saying it long enough,

If I keep believing it while I say it—

I can convince myself too.

To hear that one voice.

The one telling you everything will be fine.
That you’ll make it through.
That you’re enough.

I think about it every day—
What it would feel like to hear it.

Not just let it pass through me.
Not just nod and pretend it sticks.
But to feel it settle somewhere real.

Maybe there was a time
I didn’t feel like this.

When I didn’t need it so badly.
When I wasn’t reaching for someone else
just to feel steady.
Just to feel like I existed in a way that mattered.

My first real relationship—
that was the shift.

I was already low.
Already questioning everything about myself.

The way I looked.
The way I talked.
The way I existed around other people.

Didn’t think I could be loved.

So when it came,
it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt warm.
Immediate.

Like stepping into something—
I didn’t even realize I’d been missing.

It filled everything at once.
Too fast.

But I didn’t question it.

I didn’t slow down.

I just let it take me.

And somewhere in that,
I stopped being myself.

It wasn’t sudden.
It was quiet.

Little things at first—
changing how I spoke,
what I liked,
how I reacted.

Then more.

Until I was just… waiting.

Waiting for their words,
their attention,
their approval—

just to feel okay.

I became a puppet.
Something that moved
when they pulled.

I did everything they wanted.

And I told myself
that’s what love was.

Giving everything.
Putting them above yourself.
Making space for them—
Even if it meant there was less and less room left for you.

I would’ve done anything.

And I almost did.

I became a husk.

My clothes hung looser.
My appetite disappeared.
My hair thinned out.

I’d catch my reflection sometimes
and hesitate—

Like I didn’t recognize what was looking back at me.

Like I was looking at someone
who used to be me.

People noticed.

They’d look at me too long.
Say my name like something was wrong.
Try to pull me aside—
tell me what they were seeing
that I refused to.

I shut it all out.

Because if they were right—
then what did that make me?

Someone blind?
Someone easy to play?
Someone who gave everything away
for something that was never real?

I couldn’t accept that.

So I stayed.

Even when pieces of me
kept breaking off—

quietly at first,
then faster,
then all at once.

Until there wasn’t enough left
to ignore it anymore.

And when it ended,

it didn’t just hurt,

It shattered me.

Because I did everything right—
or at least I thought I did.

I defended them.
I chose them.
I stayed when it got hard.

No one tells you
that you can follow every rule
and still lose.

That you can give everything
to someone
who was never playing the same game.

And somehow—

that didn’t make me pull away.

It made me want it more.

Like I needed to prove something.
That it wasn’t all for nothing.
That I could be loved,
The right way this time.

That I wasn’t that version of myself anymore—
the one who disappeared
just to be held onto.

But the truth is,

I still reach for it.

That voice.
That feeling.
That reassurance.

It feels like the only time
my chest loosens—
Like the only time I can actually breathe all the way through.

Like being wanted is what keeps my heart moving.

And when it’s not there,

I feel it.

The drop.
The silence.
The absence of something,
I’ve convinced myself I need.

So I go looking for it again.

Trying to bring myself back to life—
Like performing emotional C.P.R.

And it’s exhausting
hearing that I don’t need anyone.

That I should be fine on my own.
That I should just love myself.

It always seems to come
from people
who aren’t alone.

People who already have
that voice.

It’s like being told
money doesn’t buy happiness
by someone
who’s never had to worry about it.

Maybe they’re right.

But it doesn’t feel that way from here.

From here,
It feels distant.
Unreachable.

Like something I’m supposed to understand
without ever actually having it.

And after everything—

that almost feels worse.

So I changed.

Or at least I tried to.

I became colder.

Whenever I thought I liked someone—
or they liked me—

I shut it down before it could start.

Talked myself out of it.
Picked apart every possibility
until there was nothing left.

Because I wasn’t going to be hurt again.

I still talked to people.
Still laughed.
Still played the part.

But I never gave them
anything real.

Not the part of me
that could feel something.

It was easier that way.

If I ruined it first,
I couldn’t lose it later.

If I never let it become something,
It could never break me.

That’s how I justified it.

But that version of me—

that wasn’t me either.

It was just… empty in a different way.

And somewhere in all of that,

I started to realize—

this isn’t all I am.

Not just the one who needed someone.
Not just the one who disappeared.
Not just the one who runs
before anything can even begin.

It didn’t change all at once.

It was small.

Spending more time
with people who made me feel normal again.

Laughing without thinking about it.

Not waiting on someone
to decide how my day felt.

Pieces.

I started noticing things.

What I actually liked.
What I actually cared about.

Not what made me more appealing.
Not what made me easier to keep.

Just… me.

The way I dress.
The music I sit with.

The things that stay on my mind
when I’m alone.

I started writing more.

At first it was nothing—
just getting everything out.
Putting it somewhere
so it didn’t sit so heavy in my chest.

But it became something.

A way to hear my own voice
for once.

Even if it was quieter.

Even if it didn’t always say
what I wanted it to.

And for a while—

that was enough.

Or at least… closer to it.

But I’m not going to pretend
it’s gone.

Because it’s not.

I meet someone.

Or I start to like someone.

And it’s like everything shifts.

Fast.
Warm.
Immediate.

Like I’m right back at the beginning.

Hooked.

Like it’s something my body remembers
before my mind can catch up.

Like a drug.

That first feeling—
being seen,
being wanted,
being chosen—

It hits all at once.

And suddenly
I’m reaching for it again.

That voice.
That reassurance.
That feeling of being enough
because someone else said so.

Even now.

Even knowing what it does to me.
Even seeing it for what it is.

I still feel the pull.

I just recognize it sooner.

I don’t fall as far.
I don’t lose all of myself in it.

But it’s still there.

And I don’t think that part of me
is gone.

I think I’m just learning
how to live with it.

Day by day—
It’s becoming less of a need
and more of a want.

But some days,

It still feels like I’m chasing something
I know I shouldn’t depend on—

But reach for it anyway.

Just… not as blindly as before.

Never as blind as before.

I’ve always had a lot to say, even when I don’t say it out loud.

Writing has been the one place where everything makes sense—where thoughts don’t have to be organized before they’re felt, and emotions don’t have to be explained to be real. Most of what I write lives somewhere between poetry and reflection. It’s not always clean, not always structured, but it’s honest.

That’s what brought me here.

I wanted a place to share my work without overthinking it. Somewhere I can put my words out into the world instead of letting them sit unfinished or unheard. This isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being real.

What you’ll find here is simple:
creative pieces, mostly poetry, sometimes something a little different. Writing that sits in the moment—thoughts about connection, uncertainty, attachment, distance, and everything in between.

I don’t want to overdefine it. I’d rather let the writing speak for itself.

I’ll be posting regularly—when something feels worth sharing, when a piece feels finished enough to be let go.

If anything I write resonates with you—even a little—that’s enough.

—Luis