There are names I used to love—soft, poetic ones that felt like they belonged in the life I imagined for myself. Names I wished I’d given my kids, names that echoed mine, names that carried a little glow. In my head, those names lived in a world full of beautiful people who matched their beauty.
Then I met the actual people who carried them.
The names didn’t change, of course. My perception did. One disappointing introduction, one uncomfortable interaction, one moment where reality opened its mouth—and suddenly the name was ruined. Not disliked, not downgraded. Ruined. A once‑beloved sound now scraping across my nerves like chewing glass.
It’s strange how fast it happens. A name goes from “almost magical” to “absolutely not” in the time it takes someone to reveal who they really are. The shift is instant: the fantasy collapses, the glow evaporates, and the name becomes a reminder of someone who is definitely not on my “let’s hang out” list.
And my body remembers. Every time I hear that name now, something in me recoils. The person didn’t just disappoint me—they contaminated the name. They took something I’d built up in my mind and dragged it straight into reality, where it didn’t stand a chance.
What makes it worse is the guilt. It’s just a name. One person shouldn’t have that much power. But they do. And the more I hear it, the more annoyed I get that they dared ruin my perfectly crafted imagery. Each encounter adds another shard to the pile.
I think the truth is this: The disappointment wasn’t only in who they were. It was in how much I needed them to be something else.
The name itself didn’t betray me. It just arrived at the exact moment my illusions fell apart. My world was already crumbling, and those names—once symbols of softness and hope—became tied to people who brought hurt, tears, and trauma instead.
Maybe someone could redeem those names someday. Maybe someone could give them back their glow. But so far, no one has. Hope is dangerous like that—it asks you to try again.
So instead, I search for new names. New fantasies. New soft places to land. Names untouched by disappointment, where I can rebuild something pretty, peaceful, and kind.
Still here and still rebuilding the parts they couldn’t touch,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 