Call it sentimental bullshit—
that soft, overused language
people reach for
when something real
makes them uncomfortable.
Love.
Hope.
Healing.
Words that get dismissed
the second they stop being easy.
Like feeling deeply
is something to outgrow.
Like caring too much
is a flaw
instead of a risk.
I’ve tried
to strip it all down—
make myself quieter,
less affected,
less invested
in things that don’t stay.
Told myself
it’s better this way.
Cleaner.
Safer.
No expectations.
No disappointment.
No reason to feel
anything at all.
But numb
isn’t the same
as strong.
And pretending
none of it mattered
doesn’t make it true.
Because even now—
under all the doubt,
all the cynicism,
all the ways I’ve tried
to harden—
there’s still something there.
Something stubborn.
Something that refuses
to turn into nothing
just because it got hurt.
So call it
sentimental bullshit
if you need to.
I know what it is.
It’s the part of me
that still believes
something real
is worth feeling—
even if it doesn’t last.
Through the Fog 