Floating Towards Myself

This weekend, I drifted into the hills of Kashmir—rolling roads, green slopes, and skies that seemed endless. The scenery was there, yes, but it felt less like a destination and more like a backdrop to the quiet storm inside me.

For days, I had been wrestling with the truth of my feelings for someone—a crush that once seemed so consuming, so vivid. But love, when it’s only one-sided, slowly shows its cracks. Her reality no longer matched the image I had painted, and in those mountains, I began to let the paint fade.

At the lake, I stepped into a boat and let it carry me across the water. The oars dipped and rose like a heartbeat, steady and unhurried. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t chasing after answers or replaying what-ifs. I was simply floating—between sky and water, between memory and release. The stillness of the lake spoke louder than any voice: not everything we desire is meant to be held.

Kashmir is vast and unshaken. Its peaks do not bend for anyone’s sorrow, its rivers do not pause for anyone’s longing. And maybe that’s why it healed me. In its quiet immensity, my small ache found its place and slowly dissolved.

I came back lighter, carrying no souvenirs but this realization: some journeys are not about where we go, but about what we finally leave behind.