📌soup of the day
“IF” VERSUS “HE”
There comes a time in every woman’s life when she realizes she’s become an expert at sidestepping her own heart. It’s not that we don’t want love — no, it’s the opposite. We want it all too much. But the bruises from the last heartbreak linger, a reminder of how fragile we are, even when we parade around in armor of confidence.
It’s a bit that I’m not writing; I don’t know why. Maybe I was waiting for something to shift, for clarity to appear between the lines of my own mind. And then there he was, the “something” that stirred it all back up again. There he was, right in front of me, and suddenly, I realized I’d moved forward. But he hadn’t. And I could see it — right there in his eyes. A sadness, or maybe a shadow of something unfinished, unhealed. I could feel it, as if I was carrying a piece of it with me. I wanted to see his eyes happy, but then, I wondered, was that even my responsibility to carry?
My life is full, things are moving, and I’m finally building something that resembles stability. But with that comes a whole Pandora’s box of questions. Am I ready to let my carefully balanced life wobble? To sit across from someone, to open up, to lay everything bare, the power, the weakness, the chaos, the calm. To be vulnerable. It’s the paradox of stability: after finally achieving it, the idea of risking it is terrifying.
You think you can control it — just don’t be fragile, don’t let them see the cracks. But to truly let someone in, you can’t avoid it. You’re forced to put everything on the table, to open yourself in ways that terrify you because suddenly, stability is not just a solitary pursuit. It’s a shared one.
The truth is, we learn so much from our past loves. But what if knowing exactly what I want makes me more fearful than ever to reach for it? It’s one thing to be sure of yourself, but another to face the risk of finding out if it’s possible with someone else. Knowing what you want means knowing when to say, No, thank you, next. But it also means knowing that without trying, you’ll never know what could’ve been.
There’s this “if,” this space between me and what I think I might want, and it scares me because what happens if this “if” becomes a “he”? How does someone else fit into a life so carefully, stubbornly constructed to be full on its own?
It’s terrifying, and yet it’s the one thing that keeps me staring out into the world, wondering what could happen if I just dared to let someone in. If I dared to let that “IF” transform into a “HE.” And maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to be happy in someone else’s eyes as much as I am in my own.
Now I guess the real question is: am I ready to find out?
In love, we always start with the same script: Promise me you’ll never break my heart. It’s a request we make to keep our fragile selves safe, hoping that this time, this person is different. But the truth is, heartbreak is often the price of admission for letting someone in.
It all starts innocently enough, doesn’t it? A glass of wine—just one at first, then another, and before you know it, you’ve let him up to your apartment. You know, the place that was once yours—the place that felt like your sanctuary, where you could sit in your pajamas at 3 PM and no one would judge you. But now, he’s in your space. And that’s the thing about letting someone up—once they’re in, they never really leave. Not fully.
He stays. Not physically, of course. People leave all the time. But in ways that matter, he’s still there. In the way you place the book on the shelf, in the corner of your bed where he once slept. He’s indelible, leaving marks on your life like invisible tattoos you can never fully erase.
And then comes the first film under the covers, the one where you pretended not to notice his leg sliding over yours even though it felt so heavy, but you were so happy to stay silent. The first trip to the market, where suddenly, everything felt different because someone else was picking out vegetables with you and you started eating better again. Suddenly, you weren’t just you anymore. You were you with him, and that simple act of being together made everything feel brighter. That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Once they’ve entered your world, you start needing them in ways you never expected.
I remember the first time he told me he loved me. We were in the car, and instead of feeling the warm, fuzzy glow you’re supposed to feel, I felt panic. That icy kind that starts in your stomach and spreads everywhere. What if he leaves? What if this ends? What if I’m wrong, and love is just another ticking time bomb? I was scared, terrified even, of the what ifs. And maybe I was right to be. But I let myself go anyway, because isn’t that what love is? Letting go and hoping you won’t fall too hard?
Then there’s that bottle of wine, the one that started it all, still sitting alone on the shelf. It’s a relic of a time when you believed in beginnings despite it all, a marker of the day—January 31, 2023— when you promised you’d drink it together again, but here it remains, unopened, collecting dust like the memories of what once was.
Life has moved on since then. The furniture in your apartment has shifted, new bottles of wine have come and gone. Yet that one bottle, the one tied to the moment you let your guard down, remains. It’s a symbol of something deeper—the beginning that you’ve never quite left behind. But here’s the question: Can you live a beginning twice?
Maybe the real trick isn’t in avoiding heartbreak, but in recognizing that some beginnings never truly end. They just evolve, reshaped by time and circumstance, waiting for the right moment to begin again.
Lately, I’ve found myself not wanting to talk. Not because I don’t have things to say, but because there’s a moment—one we all know too well—where you realize that silence is the only thing standing between you and an emotional outburst you can’t take back. I’ve learned that if I just stay quiet, if I bite my tongue, that bad feeling will eventually fade. I won’t explode. I’ll stay calm. I’ll continue being the ever-present friend who’s always there, no matter what. But I’m thirty years old, and I’m tired. Tired of people telling me that this is just how the world is now—that I’m too pure, too trusting, too sensitive. That I need to toughen up, put my guard up, and accept that friendships, like everything else, have become transactional. Is this really the world we live in now? Because if it is, I’m not sure I want any part of it.
I’ve been told to “just let things go,” to not make a big deal out of it. But here’s the thing: it is a big deal. It’s a big deal when we act like it’s okay that our relationships are more about what we can get from each other, rather than what we can give.
I know there are people like me, people who feel too much, who care too deeply. But are we really “too sensitive,” or is the world around us so numb, so self-absorbed, that our emotions feel foreign, misplaced, excessive? Are we the problem, or is it the culture we’re swimming in that’s devoid of empathy?
I’m exhausted by the people who treat every interaction like it’s a move in a chess game. But life is not a game of chess. There are no pawns, no queens, no kings, no jacks. There are only people—real, messy, complicated people. Stop playing the game. Start treating them like what they really are—a chance to connect, to really connect. I’m tired of living in a world where we measure our relationships in what we can gain, rather than what we can share. Where every act of kindness feels like it comes with strings attached. Where vulnerability is seen as weakness, and selfishness as strength.
Stop looking at your own garden for just a moment. Look up. Look around. Ask yourself who you really are, because in all this playing, all this strategizing, I’m not sure you even know anymore. Do you?
But, here’s the truth: I know what to expect from people. I’ve learned that not everyone will give as much as they take, that some friendships will always feel a little one-sided. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop showing up. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop caring or being the person who’s there, no matter what. Because I’ve come to understand that while the world may feel transactional, I don’t have to be. Maybe I’ll never stop feeling too much or caring too deeply, but I’ve made peace with that. I’m built to love deeply, to care, to listen, to be present even when others aren’t. And maybe that’s my strength.
So yes, I’ll be there. For you, for them, for the ones who orbit in and out. I’ll be there, because at the end of the day, it’s not about what others give me. It’s about who I choose to be. Always.
I couldn't help but wonder… what would happen if we sent every message we had drafted to our exes? Every unsent text, every unsaid word, all the things we’ve held onto, burning like embers in the back of our minds, scribbled in the notes of our phones. We tell ourselves to stay silent. Our friends tell us not to write, that it’s better to move on, to have “self-love”. But is keeping it all inside really an act of self-love? Or is it just self-preservation in disguise?
Yes I have a note in my phone filled with all the messages I wanted to send him. You know I’ve always been good at writing, but not so great at speaking. He’d ask me if I had anything to say, and I’d feel this vast universe of thoughts swirling inside me, but the words never seemed to make it out. I thought maybe if I wrote them to myself, I’d look back one day and be glad I didn’t send them. But I’m not there yet.
Lately, I’ve realized that my inability to move forward isn’t just about him, it’s about my own fear. Yesterday, I told my therapist that I’m terrified of opening up again. How do you know someone won’t leave? It’s the oldest, most clichéd fear, but god, it’s real. Sometimes it feels easier to be alone. I’ve built this delicate balance, and the thought of letting someone in again threatens to tip the scales. But then I find myself craving that intimacy, that connection. And I wonder if I want him back or if I just want what we had. It’s confusing.
I know, I know. I’m contradicting myself. In one breath, I’ll say it’s the intimacy I miss, not him. In the next, I’ll admit that he’s someone I’ll never fully forget. There are those people in our lives who, no matter how much they hurt us, remain a special part of our story. And you can’t deny what you were to each other. We were meant to be together, even if we weren’t meant to last. And even though my therapist says it wasn’t just him, that there will be someone else, I can’t shake the feeling that he was my second chance. And how many second chances do we really get?
What I miss most in this world isn’t some grand gesture or romantic moment. It’s the quiet. Lying next to him while he scrolled through his computer late at night. That stillness, that calm—it was everything. Did I ever tell him that? Of course not. We were both too focused on ourselves, too caught up in our own heads to really see what we had. And in the end, that’s what happens. We stop studying each other, stop trying to understand what makes the other tick. Everything becomes routine, and you forget to appreciate the little things that once made your heart race. I loved being in bed with him. I loved the way the door sounded when he came home. I loved seeing him happy. And maybe that’s why I was so angry sometimes—because I didn’t see him happy, and I didn’t know how to help. So I did what I thought was easiest: I shut down. I pretended nothing was wrong. But in the end, we didn’t need to fix each other. We didn’t need to find solutions. We just needed to be there, to listen, to sit with each other’s silences without expecting anything more. I wish I had understood that then.
And I still have that bottle of wine, the one we never opened. You know I’ll never drink it, right? It just sits there, like those unsent messages, a reminder of something unfinished. Just like I know you’re still watching, still keeping tabs from a distance. And those watches — I wonder if you’ll ever tell me what they really meant. But I think I know. They don’t tick in sync anymore, but they started together. And isn’t that something? They shared the same beginning, and that’s something time can never take away. Maybe that’s what we were, too — a shared beginning, even if we never had an ending. Isn't that beautiful?
There are a few universal truths I’ve come to realize. One of them is that Sundays are made for love, lazy afternoons, and laughing at nothing in particular with your favorite person. Sundays are for the blissful ambiguity between brunch and lunch, for waking up slowly with no alarm clocks, no emails, and no urgent need to dress in anything more complicated than sweats. Sundays are that sweet pause in the week, a little pocket of time designed to recharge your soul with cuddles, comfort food, and conversations that don’t require a filter.
But today, I have nothing but a box of Tachipirina1000 and a mother who keeps sending me the latest stats on which of my high school frenemies are now engaged. “Camilla” she says, “did you know the supermarket is the new Tinder? Apparently, if you put a pineapple in your cart, it’s a sign to other singles that you’re available.” A pineapple. Great. Now not only am I single, but I’m also somehow expected to flirt my way through the produce section? What’s next, speed dating at the deli counter?
And let’s not forget my dear aunt who’s decided that my love life can be solved by connecting me with friends of friends who share my lactose intolerance. Because clearly, nothing says "soulmate" like a mutual disdain for milk.
So there I was last night, tissues in hand, reflecting on life, love, and this strange phenomenon called relationships. And I realized something: people like comfort. They choose simple. In love, they gravitate toward what’s easy, familiar, and most importantly, controllable. People stick to what they know: they date girls that their families like, girls that fit neatly into their lives like a perfectly pressed shirt. Why go for someone who challenges you when you can go for the girl next door that your mom already loves?
I tend to overanalyze everything. That’s my thing. I’m the type of woman who can turn a simple text into a full-blown psychological case study. Did he say "Hey" or "Heyyyy"? One "y" is casual, two is flirty, but three? That’s commitment. I’m sure of it.
“Camilla” mum keeps saying “you’re too selective. That’s why you’re still single. You scare men away!” Scare men? Me? I’m 1.69 on a good day and I still ask for help opening olive jars. In what universe am I frightening? But apparently, somewhere between asking for a man who’s emotionally available and one who doesn’t think texting back in 24 hours is Olympic-level effort, I’ve become terrifying.
The problem is, when you’re thirty, dating isn’t as simple as it used to be. At twenty, you’re just figuring out what you want. At thirty, you know exactly what you don’t want. Suddenly, you’re more aware of red flags than green ones. You’ve been through the charming flirts, the smooth talkers, and the ones who ghost you after great dates. You’ve learned that good looks and a great smile can only take you so far—eventually, you need to see if there’s anything else under the hood. Are they emotionally intelligent? Do they make you feel safe? Are they the type to text you back with actual words, not emojis? These are the new criteria.
But the truth is, I don’t think it’s about being too selective or too scary. It’s about knowing what you want and refusing to settle for anything less. At this point in my life, I’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t make my heart race in all the right ways. I’d rather wait for the one who challenges me, who excites me, who makes me feel like life’s gears are running smoothly.
So maybe my mom’s right—maybe I am too selective. But isn’t that better than not being selective enough? Isn’t it better to wait for the one who gets you, who truly sees you, and who isn’t scared off by your quirks, your standards, or your tendency to overanalyze the hell out of everything?
In the meantime, I’ll keep scaring men away and I’ll give the supermarket pineapple thing a shot.
MAYBE THE QUESTION IS WHAT I’M MISSING
There’s something disarming about sitting across from a psychologist who seems to have the blueprint to your heart, the ability to hone in on the one question that leaves you speechless.
“Would you actually get back together with your ex?”
It’s a simple enough question, one you would think I’d have a clear answer to. But it lingers in the air like perfume—sweet, nostalgic, but also heavy, a reminder of what was and perhaps what could never be again.
The thing is, I don’t miss him. I don’t ache for his presence, nor do I feel some unfillable void that only he could ever resolve. And that’s the truth, a truth that sits comfortably with me now. I’ve regained my sense of self, my identity no longer intertwined with his. I’m independent, free in a way I hadn’t been when we were together, even at my most empowered. I have a life that’s mine, stitched together by my anxieties, triumphs, weaknesses, and strengths. All of it—mine. I’ve learned to manage it. Not perfectly, but in a way that works for me.
And yet, when I close my eyes at night, in the moments between sleep and wakefulness, something pulls at me. A question that feels heavier than the one my psychologist asks: What am I really missing?
Because I am missing something, but it’s not him—not in the way people imagine. It’s not his voice or his presence that haunts me, not even his smile or the way he held me during storms, both literal and metaphorical. What I miss is far more elusive, something harder to put into words, and yet—if I’m honest with myself—something that matters.
I miss the intimacy. Not the grand gestures of romance or the thrill of love's early stages, but the quiet, everyday acts that no one writes about. That casual touch, the affectionate gesture of a hand resting on my leg, almost unconsciously. A reminder: I’m here. You’re here. We’re here—together.
That’s what I miss. And, let’s face it, it’s not something you can create by yourself. No amount of self-love or friend dates or family gatherings fills that specific gap. Because this is something else. It’s not the kind of love you can pour into yourself. It’s not the love that friends wrap you in. It’s not even the love of family, who hold your history like a precious artifact.
This is the love of we. Of us. Of waking up next to someone and hearing their breath before you even open your eyes. Of knowing that your day will be shared, that your victories and failures will be witnessed by someone who cares. That you’ll sit on the couch at the end of a long day and just… exist. But not alone. You’ll exist in tandem with another, their energy mixing with yours, creating a kind of quiet harmony that can’t be replicated in solitude.
And that’s the hardest part, isn’t it? This longing that isn’t for a person, but for a feeling, a shared existence. I miss the we of it all. Not the him, but the us. I exist, and I exist well, but I miss the moments when we existed together.
And that’s what my psychologist’s question stirs in me. Would I get back together with my ex? It’s tempting to think that could solve the ache, that we could recapture those moments. But I know better. It’s not about him, not anymore. He’s not the answer. But the longing—the longing for connection, for intimacy, for shared moments—that’s real.
So, where does that leave me? I don’t want to go back. I’m proud of the woman I’ve become, the independence I’ve carved out, the peace I’ve found in my own company. But I’m also honest enough with myself to know that I miss being us.
Maybe the answer isn’t about going back at all. Maybe it’s about moving forward, holding onto that longing and understanding that it’s okay to miss what once was, while also making space for something new.
Because the truth is, I miss the we, but I love the me I’ve become. And perhaps somewhere out there, there’s another we waiting to be found—one that will honor both the intimacy I crave and the independence I’ve earned. Until then, I exist. And that’s enough. For now.
People often tell me that I approach feelings too intensely, that my emotions are too sensitive, and that I shouldn't feel so much because it makes me vulnerable to getting hurt. However, I see my sensitivity as one of my greatest qualities, and it likely aids me in my work as a creative. I sense love, notice the spark in people, dance deeply when I feel it, cry when I feel it, and feel pain deeply when something hurts me. I actually love all these things because they make me feel alive. This is what I want to do in my job—feel alive and transport people into these emotions.
I am the type of person who either likes you or doesn't, and if I don't, I don't want you in my life. I choose to spend my time with people I love, those who genuinely care for me and appreciate my authenticity. To me, the most beautiful thing you can offer others is your true self. People need to appreciate that because it's a profound form of love. Letting others see your vulnerability is a powerful way of expressing love. It means you're opening up and showing them who you truly are, without pretense.
I still don't understand why some people are so rude sometimes. Maybe it's because they haven't taken the time to understand their inner selves, maybe they're simply bored or perhaps they prefer to focus on other people's lives instead of dealing with their own.
Every day, we have to be cautious and watch our back but I've decided not to live like that in my private life. In my personal space, I choose authenticity and love over constant vigilance.
I believe in surrounding myself with those who respect and cherish my sensitivity, and I refuse to let the harshness of the world make me hard or unfeeling.
Cheers.
When I see people I know moving forward with their lives—having children, marrying—I sometimes wonder if I’m missing out or losing time. After two relationships that significantly changed my perspective on intimacy, taught me how to navigate it, understand another person, and love deeply, I find myself reflecting on what I’m building and questioning where I am. But then I realize that maybe my current path is just as valuable. I’m building myself—my awareness, my understanding of what I like and dislike, and learning to appreciate my solitude. In this process, I’m not wasting time; I’m constructing a strong, authentic foundation. I’m building my person. Just me.
This morning, as I walked to work, I saw the word "incastro" written on a window and I found it beautiful. In Italian, "incastro" means fit. It's not always easy to find at first, but when it clicks, it just works. Relationships are about this fit—not perfection, which is a misleading goal for me, but a dynamic, evolving connection. Like your favorite pair of jeans, they may not be flawless, but you love them because they fit you as a second skin.
Your person is your “incastro”.
Today, a woman's romantic life feels like a drama series with an endless cast of problematic guys. Can we please start schools that teach boys how to properly hit on girls? It's become a disaster out there. We make the effort to be proactive, making the first move too, but then we're hit with responses like, 'Would you like to see me (naked) without even a proper hello?' Seriously, guys, what's up with that? Send help—this whole situation is a mess.
The mustache is undeniably sexy, regardless. In other words, even if you're unattractive and sporting a mustache, you're beautiful to me. What can I say? It's my G-spot.
A friend of mine, ciao Marti, told me that last night a boy asked for her number, and it made me think about how beautiful that moment is. Sure, it's much nicer if you like the person in front of you, but in general, it's really lovely for the emotions you feel. You feel a bit of excitement, a bit of curiosity, and then you wonder—what will happen next? Could this be the start of something special? Then comes the phase where you wait for his message, and that’s the most crucial part: what will his first message say? It shouldn't be too serious, but not too silly either—finding that perfect balance that only a saint might know.
When people ask me what I find attractive in a guy, I get a tad embarrassed because I have this thing for imperfect teeth—like, my ex had this one tooth that overlapped his front tooth and it totally got me.
When I met this guy, it was like fire. I didn't know what to say, but my body started burning, and I felt like magnets in my eyes. It's like feeling you belong in that very moment, no place else.
But please, go ahead and cut your hair.
One day you told me that melancholy is a good feeling because it only comes when you think back to beautiful things, and now I know it's true because I think of us and the times we sang in the car, and I realize that this melancholy is really beautiful.
But do we realize that when we're told to turn around without drawing attention, there's already that person we're meant to look at, who's already looking back at us? In other words, it's already scripted.
I have to say thank you to that Person who taught me how to flavor my salad, showing me that, like life, something simple can become spectacular when seasoned well—why deprive yourself of happiness?
We have very strong characters, similar in some ways, and we vent our anger at each other. I am like a coffee maker—once I reach the boiling point, I start to release my frustration until it overflows. I start slowly, then suddenly explode, scalding with my hot coffee. You are the fire that both fuels and burns me, because if left on too long, the coffee pot wears out.
I don't like to say that you complete me, because I believe people are whole on their own, but we fit together perfectly. It's like in cartoons when magic objects come together and emit a brilliant light—that's how I feel with you.
Summer is approaching, and my friends have already planned to go running on Monday evenings. Meanwhile, I'll be sitting quietly on a bench, reading books and judging the muscle asses passing by. I've promised myself many times to join the gym, but to no avail—how boring. Giving up alcohol is not for me, especially right now. So, I've decided to start a healthy recovery program with a few simple principles:
- Stop giving advice that we will never put into practice. It's frustrating. To put it simply, 'whoever minds their own business lives for a hundred years.' For example: 'Dear, you should use a good moisturizing base on your skin because it looks terrible,' says the one whose skin could be mistaken for a snake's.
- Stop listening to other people's love problems, which only lead to consuming an amount of vanilla ice cream equivalent to what Bridget Jones devoured in her moments of total despair. The profession of psychologist is not for us. If any of you are or are studying to become one, stop: you still have time.