To be a Woman: My Life Journal (Pt.3)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Maybe I should just go to her, look her in the eyes, and say it: I like you. 

But what if it’s not real? What if it’s just loneliness twisting itself into something that feels like attraction? What if I don’t actually like her? But what if I actually do? It’s exhausting. There is this endless loop of wondering, second-guessing, overthinking.

God, it’s so annoying.

You already know about the girl who was my gay awakening, right? She had her birthday recently, and she’s the only person I find myself thinking about all the time. Like, truly. I don’t get stuck on people, but her.. She’s different. She’s something else. But then, there are two of my friends, and ironically, both of them have the same initials, the same letters beginning and ending their names. And suddenly, I don’t know if I have one gay awakening or two. 

Or maybe there were three. Because my best friend in high school (don’t tell anyone) sometimes, we used to kiss each other on the cheeks. It was so random, so natural, and yet, looking back, I don’t know why we did it. Maybe it was just friendship. Maybe it was something more, something we didn’t have the words for.

And then she came out to me. I remember that moment so vividly, the weight of her words. But just a month later, she was married. Just like that. Because desi parents supremacy. Because in our world, love is a luxury, and survival means surrendering to a life you never truly chose.

“I think I’m gay…” she texted me.

I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t care, maybe because I cared too much. Maybe because, deep down, her words felt like a reflection of something I hadn’t fully admitted to myself yet.

But if I could go back in time, I would tell her, “It’s okay.” I would tell her, “You’re not alone.” But most of all, I would tell her, “Just don’t come out yet.. It’s not safe.” Because in this world, truth is dangerous, and freedom comes at a price we’re not always ready to pay.

But then again… she blocked me everywhere. Just disappeared. No explanation, no goodbye. One moment she was there, and the next, gone.

So even now, I have no way of reaching out to her. No way to ask if she’s okay. If she’s happy. If she regrets it.

Maybe she had to do it. Maybe cutting me off was the only way to move forward, to survive in a world that doesn’t give us choices, only ultimatums.

Or maybe I was just another reminder of the life she couldn’t have.

Or maybe… maybe I was the mistake she had to erase.

I tell myself I understand, but do I really? If I were in her place, would I have done the same? Would I have shut the door so tightly that no one, especially the part of me that still wanted to breathe, could ever slip through?

But then again, I did the same.

During my graduation, when the questions became too loud, when I could no longer outrun the weight of who I was, I disappeared too. I shut everyone out, drifted into silence, made loneliness my home. So how could I judge her? How could I, when I know what it’s like to be swallowed whole by fear?

And yet… a selfish thought lingers.

Did she ever miss me? Even for a second? Did she ever type out a message, hover over “send,” then erase it before I could ever know? Did she ever wonder if I hated her for leaving? Because I don’t. I never could. She was the best thing that happened to me in school. The kind of person who leaves fingerprints on your soul. And sometimes, I miss her so much it aches.

Then comes the guilt.

Because while I sit here, drowning in memories, she’s out there, living the life they built for her. Maybe she doesn’t have the privilege of nostalgia. Maybe forgetting wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

And maybe, one day, I’ll have to learn to survive the same way.

Maybe one day, I’ll have to do the same.

But the thought makes my chest ache in a way I can’t explain. Because how do you forget someone who was once your safe place? How do you erase the laughter, the whispered secrets, the way the world felt a little less cruel when they were beside you?

I tell myself she’s happy. I tell myself she doesn’t think about it anymore, that she’s moved on, that she’s okay. And maybe that’s the truth. Maybe it’s better that way. But some nights, when the world is quiet and I’m left alone with my thoughts, I wonder, was I ever her safe place, too? Did she ever sit in silence, thinking about me, missing me, just like I miss her? 

I’ll never know.

And maybe that’s the hardest part.

Maybe one day, I’ll have to do the same.

Maybe one day, I’ll wake up and it won’t hurt anymore. I’ll go about my day without the weight of what-ifs pressing against my ribs. Maybe I’ll stop looking for pieces of her in strangers, in familiar scents, in the songs we used to hum under our breaths. Maybe I’ll learn how to forget.

But right now, I still remember.

When I was bullied. When I didn’t want to go to school. When I just wanted to run away.

I remember the way her laughter sounded like home. The way her words wrapped around me like a shield against a world that never felt safe. I remember the way she used to talk to me and how those words felt like a secret too big for the world to hold. I remember how I said nothing. How I let silence stretch between us, heavy and unforgiving.

Would it have changed anything if I had told her, "Me too"? 

Maybe not. Maybe she would have still left. Maybe she would have still blocked me, still disappeared into the life they built for her, still married a man the way our world demands. Maybe nothing could have saved us.

But I still wonder.

Did she ever cry into her pillow at night, the way I did? Did she ever curse the universe and god for making her this way, for placing her in a life where she had to choose between herself and her family? I mean..

Or did she force herself to move on? She must have..

And if forgetting is the only way to survive, will I ever have the strength to do the same?

Will I ever be able to move on?

I don’t know.

But I do know one thing: When the time comes, when I’m forced to stand at that impossible crossroad, I know the choice I will make. I know who I will choose.

My family.

Because in the end, they are the only thing that has ever truly mattered to me. Even if it means silencing a part of myself. Even if it means carrying this ache for a lifetime.

Even if I can’t forget, I will try.

Just like she did.

If you ever met me in real life, you’d never guess I’m someone living with such thoughts. I look, act, and carry myself like the straightest person you’ll ever meet. The kind who could nod along to conversations about “crush-worthy” boys and pretend to fit right in. But here, in this space, where my thoughts spill freely, I can admit the truth.

And no, it’s not like I spend every waking moment thinking about being into girls. It only really hits me in waves. Like when I watch wlw dramas, and suddenly, there’s this ache in my chest. A longing, a quiet kind of sorrow, because I know I may never get to have that kind of happiness. I’ve never felt this way watching straight love stories, not even K-dramas, and trust me, I’ve seen plenty.

It’s like a reminder, unspoken but heavy: That kind of love exists, but will it ever be mine?

And I think about it. About all the women before me who have felt this same confusion, this same fear, trapped in places that wouldn’t let them be who they were. I think about the love letters passed in secret, the glances stolen across rooms, the whispered confessions that never saw daylight. I think about the women who married men because they had no other choice, who spent their lives suppressing something that was always there, waiting just beneath the surface. And then I think about myself, here, now, still caught in the same struggle.. Just in a different century.

What if I end up like them? What if one day, I push this down so deep that I convince myself it was never real? What if I let the world’s expectations drown out my own truth?

Maybe that’s the scariest thought of all.

But it's also funny, isn’t it? How some people just... slip into your life and rearrange everything without even trying.

I- Oh right, I was telling you about the girl who was my gay awakening. She had her birthday recently. And funnily enough, both of these girls, the two who have occupied my mind more than anyone else, have their birthdays in the same month. Almost like the universe is playing a cruel joke.

So I wished, one of them. Over text. It was simple. Formal. She thanked me. I said nothing more. She said nothing more. End of story.

But then there was her. My first girl. Or whatever I should call her. I wished her too, and this time, we talked.

She was online when I texted. She replied right away.

The first time.

She never used to do that. I used to wait for her replies like some lovesick fool, checking my phone every few minutes, actually seconds literally, heart racing at the sight of a notification. And when her message did come through, I’d smile like an idiot, giggling at nothing, replaying our conversations in my head.

And god, the nights. The endless, sleepless nights.

I love my sleep. More than anything. I have never, in my entire life, sacrificed my sleep for anyone or anything. Not even for my studies. But for her? I did. I ruined my sleep schedule, let the hours slip away as we talked about everything and nothing. And I don’t regret a single second of it.

Because talking to her felt like standing under a waterfall, time just rushed past me, too fast, too strong, and I was drowning in it, yet I never wanted to come up for air.

And yes, I wished her. We talked for a bit, just ten minutes, maybe less. Nothing too deep, nothing too special. Just words exchanged, floating between us like they meant nothing.

And yet… even now, that conversation replays in my head like a song I can’t turn off.

It’s been so long. But the way she typed, the way she responded, it lingers. Like an echo in an empty room.

And god, I’m such an idiot.

I folded so fast.

Like, what was I even thinking? I told her about my life. Everything. Every single thing. Just like that. With a simple "Hi," with three ‘i-s’ I unraveled. Laid everything out without a second thought.

WHYYYY? Why do I do this? Why do I let her, just her, make me feel this way?

Ugh. I don’t know. I really don’t. 

Or maybe I do.

Maybe I know exactly why.

But it’s just: ahhhhhhhhhh *screams in gay*

Because how do you explain something that feels so natural yet so impossible at the same time? How do you hold onto something you were never even allowed to have?

It’s ridiculous. It’s frustrating. It’s… everything.

But then there’s the other girl.

I still talk to her. She’s still in my life. But now that I think about it: Was she really my awakening? Or was it something else entirely?

Maybe I just admired the way she carried herself, the way confidence wrapped around her like armor. Maybe I wanted to be her. Or maybe… I wanted to be with her.

I don’t know.

I don’t care.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

*screams in lesbian panic* 😭🏳️‍🌈

Because honestly, what even is this feeling? Do I want her? Do I want to be her? Do I just want to exist in her orbit, basking in whatever this is?

UGH.

This is too much. Someone take my brain away.

Whatever. So, I was telling you something before all this.. Oh right, about telling her I like her. About finally saying it out loud.

So basically, I’ve been doing the ultimate lesbian thing: looking for a sign.

Like, if she texts first. Sign.

If she wears my favorite color. Sign.

If I see two birds sitting too close together. Or maybe two cats cuddling on the street. BIG SIGN.

And yet, nothing feels clear enough. The universe is suspiciously silent, leaving me alone with my overthinking brain.

So, universe, I am begging. Guide me. Before I lose my mind completely.

Oh, and another thing: Why have I never seen a lesbian couple in public? Like, seriously, why?

All my college friends have seen them. They’ll come back from the metro like, "Oh, we saw a lesbian couple today."

And then I do the ultimate lesbian-in-hiding move: "Oh, really?"

And they’re like, "Yeah, so weird."

Weird? Weird?

And that’s when I shut up.

But deep down, I’m just out here begging the universe: Please, just once, let a lesbian couple appear before my eyes. Let them scream it from the rooftops, hold hands, kiss, wear matching rings- anything. Just so I can have proof that we exist outside of the internet. 

Because Desi girls? Oh, they’ll have you confused real quick. They’ll be holding hands, cuddling like a couple, and then boom, her ‘babu,’ a half-aged “baby” man, shows up.

*Crushed. Shattered. Left questioning everything. In Lesbian.*

Not that I’m judging, if I had a girlfriend, I’d probably call her baby too. But let’s be real, it would be more like “my love,” “sweetheart,” or something poetic, not just plain old “baby.”

Boring.

But yes- OH RIGHT. I spotted this girl wearing a top with three colors.

Pink. White. Orange.

And for a second, just a second, my heart leaped. It looked so lesbian flag coded I wanted to just… I don’t even know. Scream? Cry? Give her a knowing nod like, "Yes, girl, I see you."

I felt so good for that fleeting moment.

And then I looked at her hair. Sindoor.

And then at her phone wallpaper. A man beside her.

And that’s when I realized, she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t even know she’s wearing a flag. She doesn’t even know that somewhere, in a crowded metro, a girl like me looked at her, felt seen and thought- 

"Maybe. Maybe, just maybe..”

Only to be proven wrong.

OH GOD.

I swear we need something… Something that screams “INTO GIRLS” in big, bold, capital letters but like... only for women.

Not for everyone. Definitely not for these straighties who think it’s just “fashion” and wear it without even knowing, making us not-so-straighties feel shattered when we realize: ‘Oh no, false alarm.’

And the worst part? If they do know what it represents, they start judging. “Oh, so you’re one of those?” Like, SHUT UP, MAN.

Just let us have something secret. A really big secret that only women-loving-women understand.

A secret code, a special something, a piece of cloth, a carry-on, something that whispers.. "Hey, I see you."

Something that wouldn't make straight people go, “Oh, that’s just fashion.”

Something that wouldn’t get us unwanted stares, just knowing nods from those who understand.

Or maybe it could be a word.. something that sounds so ordinary but is actually laced with meaning, a quiet affirmation that says: "You’re not alone. I’m here too."

Something only we would get.

Something only we would wear.

Something that feels like home.

Something that makes you feel seen in public. 

Oh god, don’t even get me started on that. These straight ones, especially the men. Why do they have to insert themselves into everything? Like, please, just let us have something for ourselves!

Oh right… Speaking of something awful, I recently read about something truly heinous…

I read about corrective rape.

Yeah… corrective rape. The very phrase makes my stomach turn. The idea that someone could believe they have the right- no, the duty- to "fix" someone just because they love differently. Because they exist differently. It’s horrifying.

And the worst part? It’s not just a thing of the past. It’s not some horror story buried in history books. It’s real. It happens. Even now. Even today.

Women who dare to love women, who dare to step outside the lines drawn for them, are punished for it in ways that no human should ever have to endure. And the world? The world looks away. Pretends it doesn’t exist. Calls it “discipline.” Calls it “correction.” Calls it anything but what it really is. Torture.

How do you even process something like that? How do you live knowing that in some places, in some families, your love is seen as a crime, a sickness that needs to be forced out of you?

Like my love is criminalised in more than sixty countries? Why? 

Because the world has never been kind to those who refuse to fit into its mold. Because power has always belonged to those who fear difference. Because for centuries, men have written laws, shaped societies, and built religions that serve them, that keep them comfortable, that keep them in control.

Love. Real, free, unapologetic love, threatens that control. A woman who loves a woman does not need a husband. She does not serve the system. She cannot be owned. And so, they criminalized it. They labeled it unnatural, immoral, sinful. They convinced generations that loving freely was wrong, that being who you are was wrong.

More than Sixty countries still hold onto these chains. In some places, it's a prison sentence. In others, it's death. And even where it’s "legal," it’s still dangerous. It’s still whispered about. It’s still something people are forced to hide.

Why? Because fear is a powerful thing. And because the world isn’t ready to let go of its need to control.

This so-called “disciple” gives them the right. The right to do something that society finds heinous yet at the same time tries to give it a justification with the words like “what was she wearing?”

Exactly. The same society that preaches morality, that claims to uphold justice, turns its head when it’s convenient. It condemns in public but justifies in whispers.

They call it discipline, tradition, honor, culture, anything but what it truly is: Control. A weapon to keep people in line. To silence those who dare to exist beyond the rules set for them.

They do something unforgivable, and yet, instead of asking “why did they do this?” They ask, “what was she wearing?” Instead of punishing the crime, they scrutinize the victim. Because it's never really been about justice. It's about making sure no one steps out of line.

And when it comes to women who love women? The punishment is even crueler. Because it's not just about gender anymore, it’s about defiance. About rejecting the very foundation they built: that a woman exists for a man.

So, they try to break us. To “correct” us. As if love is something that needs fixing. As if it’s something that can be beaten, forced, or shamed out of us.

But it can't. No matter how hard they try, love will always find a way to exist. Even in fear. Even in hiding. Even in the quiet rebellion of simply being.

Rape, domestic violence, adultery. These are crimes that should be condemned by every single person. And yet, they are the very things that society finds the most justifications for.

Excuses whispered behind closed doors. Blame shifted onto the victim. Questions like What was she wearing? Why was she out so late? What did she do to provoke him? She must have refused him a lot? As if any of it could ever make violence justifiable.

It’s not justice they seek. It’s control. And when morality becomes a tool of convenience, the real criminals walk free while the victims are left to carry the shame.

But these people will never get it. Not even the women, to be honest. Because they, too, have been fed the same poison since childhood. Conditioned to believe that suffering is just a part of being a woman. That silence is dignity. That endurance is virtue.

So when another woman falls, they don’t question the system. They don’t ask why. Instead, they whisper, It must have been her fault… as if blaming her somehow keeps them safe. As if obedience is armor.

But it’s not. And it never has been.

And when it comes to men who love men, some of them will nod, say “fine,” pat themselves on the back for being “progressive.” But women who love women? No. That’s too much. That’s a threat.

Because a woman who loves a woman is a woman who doesn’t need a man.

And in their world, a woman without a man isn’t just unnatural. She’s dangerous.

~~~

To be a woman or a man without the other’s grace,  

Yet love and respect vanish in this cruel, unwelcome space.  

They call it unnatural, but it's love that’s denied,  

In a world where respect and kindness are pushed aside.