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hi future friend,

i think talking to a stranger through handwritten letters gives a kind of intimacy no other communication really holds. he doesn’t know you or your life, you can be who you want to be, you can create a whole new identity. maybe you’ll never see each other in real life and that’s honestly the beauty of it.

i think sometimes online friends from other parts of the globe could feel similar. but think post letters arriving in envelopes, you wait for them, inside real paper pages. it gives something so close to my heart and so nostalgic. it’s like writing a diary and also getting feedback.

i’m looking for pen pal friends from all over the world, or maybe if you don’t want to write long letters, we can just send postcards too, i’m also down.

xo, malina

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We have a bunch of polite phrases prepared for when we meet people — different phrases for different situations. We are polite, we smile, but our walls are set high.

Sometimes we meet friends or colleagues for dinner or a few drinks. We talk, hang out, dance perhaps. We may meet someone and have sex. In our society, sex counts as true intimacy. The act was well played. We looked good. Everyone liked us.

Still, we stayed strangers.

We think intimacy is sex. But is it? Is sex always that intimate? We have sex and still don’t know each other.

We guard our inner castles well. The walls stay high.

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And maybe we’re right. So many things could go wrong. We had to fit into so many standards and requirements since we were kids.

Yet we become close to someone, truly close, only when we show that we’re not as tough or cool or unbothered as we want to look. Late at night, talking to someone over wine, I start. I say my fears.

I fear not being good enough at what I’m doing.

I fear being rejected when I open up about my feelings.

I fear the future. The uncertainty of it.

I mention my childhood trauma.

You think, you contemplate.

There is always a risk in opening yourself up to a stranger: you may think strangely of me, mark me as an oversharer or the weird one. But probably not. Probably you will open up in return. Because we need each other.

And I see the gate of the castle opening. And we are allies now.

At first it’s just a tiny gap. There’s a beautiful green garden, but the rest I don’t see yet. And maybe that’s how we let it stay. Because there are different bonds we share with different people.

Or maybe you show me more. The courtyard, the stables, the turrets, the dungeons. Bit by bit, detail by detail, I learn more. Sometimes it may take weeks, sometimes months, sometimes years.

And that’s brave. Perhaps it’s the bravest thing we can do — show our scars, our flaws. Stranger and more fascinating still is how those two qualities go hand in hand: bravery and vulnerability. It’s like light cannot exist without darkness.

I believe true connection is possible only through vulnerability.

xo, Malina

Roughly eighty percent of songs are about it. It’s often said that heartbreak is a source of inspiration. That’s when we, as creators, tend to make our best work — out of that pain rather than the happiness of romance.

There are books that keep us up at night, where characters cannot be together for one reason or another. Movies about it, too.

But we don’t truly talk about what happens when friendships end.

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There may be many reasons for that ending, just as there are for a romantic breakup. You simply outgrow each other. A disagreement leads to a fight. A secret, perhaps, devours the friendship from within. And the truth is, friends can be as irreplaceable as romantic partners — sometimes even more so.

I had many friends I parted ways with. But I was friendship-heartbroken only once in my life, when my best friend at the time and I stopped communicating. We outgrew each other — not all at once — I’d known the splitting moment was coming long before it happened. A small misunderstanding triggered it, and we just left it be. Because sometimes there is no need to try to patch a hole; it would still leak.

I’m grateful to that friend.

But I’m also happy our ways parted.

Some friendships are not meant to last forever. They are seasons rather than homes. They arrive exactly when we need them and leave once they have taught us what they came to teach.

Still, I typed a few messages I never sent. I stared at our chat at night, relistened to several voice messages we exchanged. I scrolled through our pictures in my gallery.

I saw a funny picture or video online that I’d have shared with that friend, but she was no longer in my life.

I had other friends. In a sense, I wasn’t technically alone. But a part of me felt that way.

When you’re heartbroken romantically, friends come and support you, drag you out of the house. Or you can stay in bed, eat ice cream and pizza, and watch sad movies. And it’s all very socially acceptable.

But what do you do when you and your best friend are no longer friends? Society-wise, you are okay. But are you? There are no norms for that. No roadmap for how to navigate it.

It was the right step to end that friendship, you keep telling yourself. Somehow, it doesn’t help you feel better.

The thing is, in the perfect future you pictured, you shared time together. That person was there.

My travel friend. My bridesmaid. And now she’s simply not in my life. She ended up being just a few chapters in my book.

And I think we should be allowed to grieve that too. To express it instead of swallowing our feelings.

Why do we allow ourselves to mourn people we dated for six months, but not people who knew us for ten years?

Maybe there should be guidelines for that too. Maybe we should speak more about it.

Because it hurts no less.

xo, Malina

They depart, certainly. We stop calling or writing. We don’t meet anymore. Their names appear less and less often on our screens. Their birthdays arrive and pass without celebration. The space they once occupied fills with other people or things.

And yet, they remain.

The password on my phone is the one my best friend of eight years ago used to have. Of course, I’ve modified it to make it my own, but the idea is the same. That friend and I outgrew each other and parted ways. But that piece of her stayed with me.

Some phrases my ex used to say are my phrases now. Not in a way that they remind me of him. No, they are fully mine, but if you traced their origins, they would lead back to him.

Those aren’t the same kinds of memories that hit hard, like a song you associate with one particular event or a specific place. No, these things were never special during your relationship. They were ordinary, and then they gradually became a part of you as people left.

Maybe they weren’t even people close to us. A lady on a plane whose style inspired you, and now you wear your scarf exactly that way. Some part of you resonated with her.

Other people didn’t have to leave our lives to make a mark. My early music taste was heavily influenced by another friend. We’re still good friends, just not as close: we live in different cities now. She touched my soul deeply in that particular phase of my life — that particular version of her.

I think it’s strange how often we believe we exist separately, as if our whole personality was formed entirely by our own minds.

When in reality, we’re like the sea. When the tide leaves the shore, it doesn’t take everything with it. It leaves behind shells and stones.

People leave, but they do not leave empty-handed. They leave carrying parts of us, and in return, they leave parts of themselves behind.

Maybe that is what it means to know someone truly.

Not that they stay forever.

But that after they are gone, you can still find evidence of them in the person you have become.

xo, Malina

Take Xaden from Fourth Wing. His romance works because love threatens everything he’s built. Every vulnerable moment costs him something. The story isn’t about finding love; it’s about resisting it.

The same is true of Rhysand. Beneath his power is profound loneliness. His romance is defined by waiting, sacrifice, and hope for something that seems impossible.

Villains and morally gray characters are allowed to be messy. Heroes save kingdoms. Villains obsess.

And obsession is literary gold.

No one proves this better than Heathcliff. Cruel and destructive, he remains unforgettable because his love for Catherine consumes his entire life.

Great love stories aren’t built on comfort. They’re built on desire. The best heroes find love. The best villains are haunted by it.

And fiction has always preferred haunted people.

xo, Malina

usually, i cut it into slices - thin, how i like it.

but i wanted a change.

sometimes we get so stuck in our routines, the usual way we do things.

i needed a change, so i put my coffee on the counter and started peeling.

i think healing looks less like becoming and more like peeling.

the skin resists at first.

you press your thumb into it and feel that familiar give - the moment between intact and opened. the moment something decides to reveal itself.

a small tear appears.

and suddenly the scent arrives.

bright.

sharp.

impossible to ignore.

it fills the room before i’ve even seen what’s underneath.

maybe that’s how the soul works too.

maybe before we uncover ourselves, we announce ourselves.

through small cracks.

through exhaustion.

through longing.

through the things we can’t stop thinking about.

i keep peeling.

the rind curls backward like old assumptions.

like versions of myself i wore because they fit everyone else’s expectations.

the good daughter.

the easy friend.

the ambitious one.

the unbothered one.

the strong one.

some parts have been attached for years.

some have grown so close to my skin that i mistake them for myself.

but they aren’t.

they are only the covering.

necessary once.

not forever.

the thing about an orange is that what protects it isn’t what nourishes me.

the bitter part is not the fruit.

the armor is not the heart.

and yet we spend years polishing our armor.

we spend years perfecting the rind.

making it smooth.

presentable.

unblemished.

all while forgetting that sweetness lives underneath.

what a tragedy that is.

to spend your entire life becoming a beautiful shell.

i keep peeling.

and beneath the bright skin, i find the white threads.

the things that remain even after i’ve decided to let go.

old fears.

inherited beliefs.

words spoken when i was young enough to believe them.

you’re too much.

you’re not enough.

be practical.

be smaller.

be quieter.

be easier to love.

it does not leave willingly.

it holds on.

i remove one strand and discover another.

then another.

then another.

i keep peeling.

till almost all of them are gone.

i open the orange into segments.

and i understand.

the soul is not one thing.

it is a collection.

a gathering.

they sit together beneath the same peel.

separate.

belonging.

each segment carrying its own sweetness.

its own shape.

its own story.

perhaps maturity is not choosing one.

perhaps maturity is making room for different versions of myself.

holding each piece gently.

recognizing that wholeness was never sameness.

wholeness was always inclusion.

i keep peeling.

inside, i see the seeds.

small.

hidden.

potential disguised as inconvenience.

we mistake beginnings for obstacles.

we mistake possibility for interruption.

but every seed contains an orchard.

every small truth contains a future.

every moment of honesty contains a life waiting to be lived.

peeling the orange taught me patience.

nothing rushes.

nothing forces itself.

it simply becomes visible when the layers are removed.

the sweetness was always there.

the segments were always there.

the seeds were always there.

peeling didn’t create them.

peeling revealed them.

that may be the most comforting thing.

we do not have to manufacture our soul.

we do not have to invent our worth.

we do not have to become someone new.

we only have to uncover what has been waiting beneath the surface all along.

beneath the expectations.

beneath the performances.

beneath the fear.

beneath the endless noise telling me who i should be.

something impossible to replicate.

something entirely mine.

and perhaps the work of a lifetime is not building it.

perhaps the work of a lifetime is simply peeling.

returning.

uncovering.

again and again.

i stood in my kitchen, feet on the cold tiles, my fingers sticky, a pile of discarded skins on the counter.

i took the first bite.

Love,

Malina

1. Watch the sunrise from somewhere beautiful.

2. Read an entire book in a single day.

3. Have a picnic with friends.

4. Go swimming in the sea, a lake, or a river.

5. Take a spontaneous day trip.

6. Eat fresh fruit from a local market.

7. Stay up late talking about life.

8. Watch an outdoor movie.

9. Learn a new skill just for fun.

10. Visit a town I’ve never explored before.

11. Spend a whole day offline.

12. Try a restaurant I’ve always been curious about.

13. Dance without worrying about how I look.

14. Go stargazing.

15. Take photos of ordinary moments that feel special.

16. Do something that scares me a little bit but excites me a lot.

17. Make a summer playlist I’ll always associate with this year.

18. Attend a concert or live music event.

19. Write a letter to my future self.

20. Watch a thunderstorm from somewhere cozy.

21. Host a dinner, barbecue, or game night.

22. Wake up early and go for a long walk.

23. Try a hobby I’ve been putting off.

24. Spend a day exploring museums, bookstores, or galleries.

25. Have a weekend adventure with no strict plans.

26. Talk to strangers, meet new people, make friends.

27. Learn a recipe and make it well enough to share.

28. Create something I’m proud of.

29. Find a new favorite spot in my city.

30. Dance in the rain.

Love,

Malina

🍓🫐

Some time ago, I asked myself that question while lying sleepless in bed. You know that state of mind when you have too many thoughts and they won’t let you fall asleep peacefully.

The answer came immediately.

1. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

My mum read it to me when I was a kid. Something you need to know about my mum: she’s the definition of the term I often see online — a “spiritual baddie.” She got into psychology in her late thirties and spirituality shortly after. Prior, she started a company that my dad took over and gave birth to two kids. She earned a second degree in psychology and has never stopped educating herself since.

The Alchemist represents my belief that life is meaningful and magical. It is the part of me that keeps searching for a hidden thread connecting one moment to the next. The part that believes every detour matters. And our paths are, in fact, never straightforward. That coincidences aren’t random. That what doesn’t work out for us will still be working for our greater good at the end one way or another.

1. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

This is my love book.

Again, that’s my mum’s and my favourite book. The old film with Colin Firth had been watched a countless number of times in our house before I moved out (we still watch it sometimes when I come to visit).

It shaped my vision of the perfect man: Mr. Darcy.

And looking back now from my mid-twenties to my younger self, I’m glad I had those standards.

That’s what books do (and films, for that matter). They expand our palette and, with it, our possibilities.

(I used to love Rhett Butler from Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, but looking back, he’s actually quite toxic, isn’t he?)

1. And finally, any Haruki Murakami novel — particularly the more mature ones.

I can’t choose just one.

What I love isn’t even a specific plot.

It’s the feeling.

The lonely apartments. The jazz records playing late at night. The quiet, slightly melancholic protagonists. The cats. The strange dreams. The sense that reality is thinner than it appears.

Murakami captures the feeling that life contains hidden rooms. That beneath our ordinary routines there are other versions of ourselves. Other paths we could have taken. Other lives unfolding somewhere just out of sight.

His novels live in the space between memory and dream. He connects the conscious and the subconscious.

And of course, he’s a master of romanticising life. Somehow, his work is melancholic, yet it makes you want to live. To wonder. To keep looking.

This is my first post on Substack and I don’t think this essay will get many reads (although there’s always an element of hope that keeps us going), but if you’ve made it this far, I’d love to know:

Which three books define you?

I’m genuinely curious.

And maybe a little nosy.

Love,

Malina