Heyyy, gotta love finding fellow algerians ✨

✧ Fine china : feels like falling for someone so hard you don’t care if it ruins you—soft, dreamy, and a little bit tragic

✧ Serial Killer : It’s giving femme fatale, main character in a thriller movie, the girl everyone is drawn to but should probably stay away from

✧ She's not me: it's literally the national anthem for girls who know they’re irreplaceable It’s giving pretty, bitter, and slightly delusional, like yeah, go ahead and try to find another me—spoiler: you won’t

✧ Hundred Dollar Bill : is straight-up hot girl capitalism—sugar baby energy, It’s giving messy, expensive, and unbothered, like blowing kisses from the passenger seat of some rich guy’s car while plotting your next move

✧ Breaking My Heart : It’s giving teary-eyed but still looking pretty, writing dramatic diary entries, and fully believing no one in history has ever felt this way before , The song makes you want to sigh dramatically, stare at your ceiling, and pretend your life is a tragic romance movie

Some days, it feels like I’m carrying too much—too many thoughts, too many expectations, too many unanswered questions. I’m stuck between feeling everything too deeply and pretending I don’t care.

I want to be the best, to prove something to myself, to others. I want to see my name at the top of the class, to know that I was more than just "good enough." But sometimes, I wonder if it’s even worth it. If all the effort, all the pressure, will ever be enough for the world around me.

I want love to be simple, but it never is. It’s glances across the room, moments slipping away, words left unsaid. It’s wanting something I can’t reach, something I don’t even fully understand. It’s the weight of my own feelings, tangled in fear of what my family would think, what my own mind keeps whispering.

And then, there are the nightmares—the ones I can’t shake, the ones that feel too real. The ones that make me question why my mind chooses to replay such dark things. Maybe it’s trying to tell me something. Maybe it’s just another thing I have to carry.

I want to love myself the way I love the details of others. The way I notice the small things—their laugh, the way they talk about what they love, the way their eyes light up. But when I look at myself, it’s different. I see what I need to fix, what isn’t enough. I see the weight I still want to lose, the version of me that I haven’t become yet.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most—knowing that no matter how much I try, I’ll always want more. More from myself. More from life. More from the world that doesn’t always give back.

But I’m still here. And maybe that’s enough for now.