The end of June

It was a rainy evening. I was in the back seat of my car, returning home after a long, hectic day at work. It was the 1st of July.

Earlier that afternoon, I’d made a journal entry about how eventful June had been. I was simply jotting down incidents, and I realised just how many firsts the month had brought into my life.

Then, somewhere during the drive, I found myself listening to songs that I once associated with ‘N’. But something had changed.

I wasn’t grieving him anymore. I was simply… cosying up to the idea of him.

Love had become a pleasant nostalgia. Even without a partner, love still existed—and it no longer hurt. It felt like a memory. A safe one. One of my own making. A space that felt like a warm hug. Arms that felt like love and safety.

And then my mind wandered back to something my therapist had called me a couple of months earlier…

“A hopeless romantic.”

We processed a great deal after that—work that, in many ways, helped me arrive at the centredness I experience today. I’ll write about that journey another day, in another blog.

But for now, that memory was enough.

It made me write the words that follow.

Not as a poem.

But as an outburst of everything that…

A heart incapable of not loving… loves.

A heart incapable of not feeling… feels.

 ___________

HOPELESS ROMANTIC 

We are lovers.

The hopeless romantics.

It is for us that there are flowers and music,

colours and fragrance,

poetry and romance,

and all the beautiful things in this world.

We cannot stop loving,

and we never should,

even if, sometimes, it breaks us a little.

Our love is ours to give,

ours to feel.

No one can ever take that away from us.

We are the feeling within every feeling,

the romance in love,

the colour in dreams,

the fragrance in flowers.

We are passion and desire,

the will to move mountains,

and the courage to fight the world for Love.

We cannot let the world take that away from us.

We cannot let the sparkle in our eyes fade.

We cannot let the music in our hearts fall silent.

We cannot let our pens run dry of the ink of Love.

We are… the Lovers.

We are… hopeless romantics.

1st July 2026, 7:58 PM

__________

Journal Entry

So… June was eventful.

I had a breakup—chose myself over what the “TAB” said was right.

I wrote a story, conjured from an old heartbreak that still called for one last “Closure.”

A colleague died. Literally!

A cat met with an accident… and I watched it slowly pass away over a week, from afar, wondering if his humans are crying for him somewhere oblivious to his fate!

Came out to Dad as Bi.

Had an interview with BBC Bangla on Queer ageing.

I took a break from therapy because it genuinely felt… DONE. Like I’d reached the end of a chapter. Like decades of healing was finally achieved…

The police showed up over a complaint lodged against me. I had to stand my ground—with my lawyers beside me.

I wrote some of my strongest articles yet—on queer ageing, bisexuality, and bi-erasure.

And then…

I wrote an entirely new story —  “Scintillating Euphoria“

1st July 2026, 5:54 PM