A quiet ache between music and stillness.
Author: Unfinished Rooms
I write from the middle of things, where memory lingers like dust in corners, and healing is still in progress.
Unfinished Rooms is the space I return to, the emotional architecture of my life, half-built and still echoing.
Here, I gather the fragments. The grief. The laughter. The silence.
Here, I write lived stories.
Always raw. Sometimes tender. Never complete.
And other times, when it’s too much to feel, I escape into stories I make up.
Stories that echo my truth, even when they aren’t real.
This blog is me, making a home inside the mess.
Rebuilding, one Unfinished Room at a time.
Heavy Closeness
This piece is an exploration of what it means to grow up without room to breathe; in a house full of bodies, objects, noise, and unspoken rules. It’s a story about learning closeness before I ever learned space. About how love can feel like suffocation when your childhood taught you to shrink instead of exist. I return to the fragments of myself I once abandoned; the little girl who didn’t have a corner of the bed, the teenager who walked until the panic left her chest, the woman who craves intimacy but fears being swallowed by it. This is my attempt to press play again. To rebuild the home inside me. To stay this time. To breathe.
Held in Chaos
The room was humming low - Laughter in fragments, glasses clinking, the soft shuffle of people waiting for something they couldn’t name, the air smelling like whiskey and wanting. She found a spot up front, close enough to see the shine of the stage lights … Continue reading Held in Chaos
Ticking Time Bomb
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tick Tock Till it all crashes down. All of it, crumbling down. So… What I mean by that is, hmm, I stopped painting a while ago. Stopped sculpting. Stopped making messy pictures on my skin. Every time I didn’t want to … Continue reading Ticking Time Bomb
The Pillow Smelled Like Her
He was moving out, packing the last box. Yet, the pillow… the pillow held him back. It wasn’t just a pillow; it was a vessel of memories, a tangible connection to her. It was the pillow she always hugged when she was upset, the one … Continue reading The Pillow Smelled Like Her
Two Sundays
Writer’s Note: This piece reflects the stillness and ache of memory. It's about the kind of love that shapes us even after it ends. It lives inside specific moments, like Sundaymornings, and becomes an enduring part of us. I wrote this with brutal honesty, blending … Continue reading Two Sundays
Still Living In That House
Writer’s Note This piece is part memory, part feeling, and part search. It is not a linear story. It moves like memory does; fragmented, circular, sometimes clear and sometimes smudged. I wrote this not because I have answers but because I needed space for the … Continue reading Still Living In That House
11 p.m.
“I miss having sex with you,” I confess, My fingers tracing the screen in the hush of a dim room, The clock was nearing 11 p.m. Days had passed like whispers. Before his message finally arrived: He was back in Cape Town, returning from the … Continue reading 11 p.m.
You, after All
Stages of Grief ~ Acceptance Two years have passed since our paths diverged, Yet your presence still lingers in the quiet corners of my mind a steady beacon amid the ebb and flow of time. Your image, though softened by the passing seasons, remains etched … Continue reading You, after All
I am still on a journey of defining Romance, but here’s a weak attempt at writing about it.
Daily writing promptWhat's your definition of romantic?View all responses Books and Romance Not a definition but a story. In a quaint coastal town, where the scent of the sea mingled with the whispers of romance, lived Shantey, a young artist with a heart yearning for … Continue reading I am still on a journey of defining Romance, but here’s a weak attempt at writing about it.
Unfinished Rooms 