Chiku Diaries

Predictions are a normal part of us, guessing the next plot twist in a movie, or what marks we’ll get on a test. And most of the time, if we’re being honest, we’re right. If we’re logical enough, we usually know how things will play out. But no one tells you how dangerous it is to be right about your own heartbreak. No one tells you that sometimes the most painful part isn’t being left on seen, or being ignored, or walking past someone a hundred times hoping they’ll just look up once. The worst part is knowing it all in advance. Knowing this crush wasn’t going anywhere. Knowing your messages would sit unopened. Knowing you were signing up to hurt, but still doing it anyway. We set logic aside, ignore the signs, and let our softest parts take the fall. And when it happens, we don’t even get to say, “Lol, didn’t see that coming.” Because we did. We always did. So why do we still walk in with our eyes open, Knowing how it ends?

 I used to love cakes. Chocolate, mostly. Simple, sweet, easy to love. Now, I think twice before taking a bite. Not because I’ve stopped liking the taste. I still do. But somewhere along the way, the joy in it got replaced by guilt. People talk about body image like it’s about filters or magazine covers or influencers. But sometimes, it starts closer. Sometimes, it starts with someone, too close, pointing it out before you even notice it yourself. And not directly through side comments, looks, or the kind of silence that suddenly makes you feel too visible. It’s not just about food. It becomes about control. Saying no before anyone says something. Acting fine. Smiling through it. And pretending you're unaffected when the truth is, you've memorized every word that made you feel like too much. Yes, pressure can create diamonds. Everyone loves to say that. But sometimes pressure doesn’t build anything at all; rather, it breaks. Sometimes it just takes the fun out of cake. ...

Wasn’t love once a letter left on the window, a hand reaching out before the fall, a name written slowly on the spine of memory? Now it flickers like a text left on read, a plan “maybe” for someday, a love replaced by timelines, typing bubbles, and terms without meaning. Where’s the celebration for small wins? The silence held for big griefs? The patience, the pages, the staying? Wasn’t love once a steady lamp in storm weathered rooms? Maybe it’s still here tucked beneath filters and fears, buried in hearts that scroll past it. Or maybe, we’ve just renamed it so many times, we forgot what it looked like.