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Episode 13: The Sacred Mess of Being Human
I love unmade hearts,
and bedrooms that look like the inside of a Sunday mind—
sheets kicked to the floor, books spined open,
a half‑finished cup of tea still wearing someone’s lipstick.
I love 3 a.m. kitchens,
when someone is drunk enough to cry into the sink
and honest enough to tell you why.
Mascara rivers, shaking hands on chipped mugs,
the way they apologize for “being a mess”
while accidentally showing you the most beautiful thing about them.
I love the look in someone’s eyes
the split‑second they realize they’re in love—
that startled, soft panic, like they’ve just remembered
where they left their whole life,
and it’s standing right in front of them.
I love morning faces,
creased with pillow lines and dreams not yet folded away.
Hair a rebellion, voice still half asleep,
the moment before they remember their name tags
and passwords and practiced smiles.
For a breath, they belong only to themselves.
I love the gasp in a crowded cinema
when a favorite character dies—
that sharp collective inhale,
hands flying to mouths, popcorn forgotten,
because for one heartbeat
everyone in the room is grieving the same ghost.
I love the people on trains
staring out of windows with headphones in,
eyes unfocused, somewhere else entirely.
The ones mouthing lyrics,
the ones smiling at nothing,
the ones blinking too fast
because they almost cried in public and caught themselves.
I fall in love with people
in waiting rooms and supermarket aisles,
the ones who drop a jar and laugh at themselves,
who talk to babies in line behind them,
who say “you go ahead”
like it costs them nothing and somehow gives them back time.
I love friends sitting on bathroom floors at parties,
passing a roll of toilet paper like a sacred offering,
saying, “Tell me everything,”
while someone in a glitter dress admits
they don’t know who they are without being “the fun one.”
I love breakdowns in parked cars,
music turned up too loud to hide the sobs
but not loud enough to stop them.
The way someone grips the steering wheel
like it’s the only solid thing left,
and still finds the strength to say, “I’m scared,”
as if fear isn’t already written in the fog on the windows.
I love smeared lipstick at 2 a.m.,
shoes dangling from tired fingers,
the walk home where laughter and silence
take turns carrying the weight of the night.
I love the way people close their eyes
when a song hits the exact scar it was written for,
how their lips move around a chorus
they didn’t know they remembered,
how they look a little more themselves
with every word they don’t have to explain.
I love daydream faces—
the student staring past the teacher,
the barista zoning out between orders,
the old man on a park bench
smiling at something only he can see.
It’s like watching someone step through a door
in the middle of ordinary air.
I fall in love with people and their honest moments
all the time.
The way they fiddle with ring bands when they’re about to tell the truth.
The way their voice cracks on the word “actually.”
The way they look down at their hands
after admitting, “I’m not okay.”
I love chipped nail polish,
coffee stains on favorite books,
text messages that say “made it home”
and “sorry I vanished, my brain was loud.”
I love every tiny confession
that says, “Here is who I really am
when I think no one is grading me.”
Honesty is the way someone exhales
when they think no one is listening.
It’s the laugh that snorts,
the hug that lasts one second too long,
the trembling “I missed you”
at the doorstep after years of pretending otherwise.
Honesty is the moment the mask slips
and instead of shattering,
the whole person finally comes into focus.
Language will never be wide enough
for how beautiful we are
when we stop performing
and simply exist—
unmade, unedited,
perfect in all the ways
we’re still trying to hide.
Written by Chicandchillingreads (Threads) / https://substack.com/@chicandchillingreads
Thanks for reading AnureetWrites! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit anureetwrites.substack.com
View all episodes
By AnureetI love unmade hearts,
and bedrooms that look like the inside of a Sunday mind—
sheets kicked to the floor, books spined open,
a half‑finished cup of tea still wearing someone’s lipstick.
I love 3 a.m. kitchens,
when someone is drunk enough to cry into the sink
and honest enough to tell you why.
Mascara rivers, shaking hands on chipped mugs,
the way they apologize for “being a mess”
while accidentally showing you the most beautiful thing about them.
I love the look in someone’s eyes
the split‑second they realize they’re in love—
that startled, soft panic, like they’ve just remembered
where they left their whole life,
and it’s standing right in front of them.
I love morning faces,
creased with pillow lines and dreams not yet folded away.
Hair a rebellion, voice still half asleep,
the moment before they remember their name tags
and passwords and practiced smiles.
For a breath, they belong only to themselves.
I love the gasp in a crowded cinema
when a favorite character dies—
that sharp collective inhale,
hands flying to mouths, popcorn forgotten,
because for one heartbeat
everyone in the room is grieving the same ghost.
I love the people on trains
staring out of windows with headphones in,
eyes unfocused, somewhere else entirely.
The ones mouthing lyrics,
the ones smiling at nothing,
the ones blinking too fast
because they almost cried in public and caught themselves.
I fall in love with people
in waiting rooms and supermarket aisles,
the ones who drop a jar and laugh at themselves,
who talk to babies in line behind them,
who say “you go ahead”
like it costs them nothing and somehow gives them back time.
I love friends sitting on bathroom floors at parties,
passing a roll of toilet paper like a sacred offering,
saying, “Tell me everything,”
while someone in a glitter dress admits
they don’t know who they are without being “the fun one.”
I love breakdowns in parked cars,
music turned up too loud to hide the sobs
but not loud enough to stop them.
The way someone grips the steering wheel
like it’s the only solid thing left,
and still finds the strength to say, “I’m scared,”
as if fear isn’t already written in the fog on the windows.
I love smeared lipstick at 2 a.m.,
shoes dangling from tired fingers,
the walk home where laughter and silence
take turns carrying the weight of the night.
I love the way people close their eyes
when a song hits the exact scar it was written for,
how their lips move around a chorus
they didn’t know they remembered,
how they look a little more themselves
with every word they don’t have to explain.
I love daydream faces—
the student staring past the teacher,
the barista zoning out between orders,
the old man on a park bench
smiling at something only he can see.
It’s like watching someone step through a door
in the middle of ordinary air.
I fall in love with people and their honest moments
all the time.
The way they fiddle with ring bands when they’re about to tell the truth.
The way their voice cracks on the word “actually.”
The way they look down at their hands
after admitting, “I’m not okay.”
I love chipped nail polish,
coffee stains on favorite books,
text messages that say “made it home”
and “sorry I vanished, my brain was loud.”
I love every tiny confession
that says, “Here is who I really am
when I think no one is grading me.”
Honesty is the way someone exhales
when they think no one is listening.
It’s the laugh that snorts,
the hug that lasts one second too long,
the trembling “I missed you”
at the doorstep after years of pretending otherwise.
Honesty is the moment the mask slips
and instead of shattering,
the whole person finally comes into focus.
Language will never be wide enough
for how beautiful we are
when we stop performing
and simply exist—
unmade, unedited,
perfect in all the ways
we’re still trying to hide.
Written by Chicandchillingreads (Threads) / https://substack.com/@chicandchillingreads
Thanks for reading AnureetWrites! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit anureetwrites.substack.com