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The Unrequited Love

Five Stages Of Grief When Your Text Goes Unanswered

We’ve all been there, that soul-sucking void after you’ve sent a message and… nothing. No reply. No “seen.” Just digital silence echoing through your notifications bar. You start to question everything, your texting skills, your self-worth, maybe even your Wi-Fi connection.

But don’t worry, it’s not just you. You’re simply moving through the five stages of text-message grief.

1. Denial – “They must be busy.”

It starts innocently. You send your text, perfectly witty, maybe even punctuated correctly for once and then you wait.

Five minutes go by. You check your phone. Twice.

You convince yourself they’re just “away from their phone.” Because surely no one could ignore that message. You even rationalize that they’re probably crafting the perfect reply. After all, genius takes time, right?

Spoiler: they’re not crafting anything. But denial is a warm, cozy place to be.



2. Anger – “How DARE they?”

The silence stretches. Now you’re furious.

You think of every time you’ve promptly replied to their texts. Every time you’ve been kind, understanding, even punctuated with emojis for emotional clarity.

“How can they just ignore me like that?” you mutter, while furiously typing out a follow-up text, only to delete it because you’re better than that.

Are you, though? Because you just checked if they’ve posted a story on Instagram. Spoiler: they have.


3. Bargaining – “Maybe if I send a meme…”

You start strategizing.
If they didn’t reply to your first text, maybe humor will break the silence.

So you send a meme. Something casual, nonchalant, yet subtly desperate, the digital equivalent of “Hey, remember me?”

When that doesn’t work, you spiral deeper.
You type things like “haha just realized I never got your reply 😂” and “no rush tho lol”, knowing full well that “lol” is doing a lot of emotional heavy lifting.


4. Depression – “I’m the problem.”

By now, the silence is louder than your ringtone. You start replaying the conversation, wondering what you said wrong.

Maybe your text was too long. Maybe it wasn’t funny enough. Maybe you used too many emojis. Maybe they hate emojis. Maybe they hate you.

You lie in bed, phone face down, pretending you don’t care — but every vibration still makes your heart race. Only to realize it’s your grocery app sending a discount.

Life is pain.


5. Acceptance – “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Eventually, you reach enlightenment. You stop checking your phone every 90 seconds. You stop overanalyzing.

You accept that maybe they got busy. Or maybe they’re just not that into texting. Or maybe they fell into a portal to another dimension where Wi-Fi doesn’t exist.

Whatever the case, you’ve found peace. You move on.
Until they finally text back with a casual “hey sorry just saw this!”

And suddenly, you’re back at Stage 1.

Moral of the story:
Texting in the 21st century isn’t communication, it’s emotional endurance training.

So the next time your text goes unanswered, just remember: you’re not being ignored. You’re on a journey.

A painful, petty, meme-filled journey toward acceptance.

“Circle Back, Loop In, Move the Needle: A Newcomer’s Guide to Surviving Corporate Speak”

When I joined my new job, I came armed with enthusiasm, a fresh notebook, and a determination to “blend in.” I imagined lively brainstorming sessions, collaborative lunches, maybe even an occasional after-hours coffee run with the team.

What I didn’t imagine was needing a translator just to survive a meeting.

By day two, I was convinced I had accidentally joined a secret society. Everyone spoke in what sounded like English, but wasn’t.

> “Let’s take this offline.”
“We need to move the needle.”
“Double-click on that thought.”
“Circle back next sprint.”



Meanwhile, I was just trying to figure out where the coffee machine was.

In the first week, I smiled and nodded a lot. I laughed when others laughed. I typed furiously during meetings, pretending to take notes but secretly compiling a glossary. “Low-hanging fruit” turned out not to be snacks in the pantry. “Bandwidth” didn’t refer to internet speed. And “Visibility”—the most sacred of all corporate terms—wasn’t about eyesight, but survival.

The strangest part? In one-on-one chats, people were normal. My manager would say, “Hey, how are you doing? Let me know if you need help settling in.” Simple. Clear. Human.

But the moment a calendar invite said “All-hands,” everyone transformed. Voices grew confident. Acronyms flew like confetti. Suddenly, everyone was “looping in,” “touching base,” and “driving synergy.”

It was like watching Clark Kent put on glasses and become more confusing.

Eventually, I learned to play the game. I started saying things like, “Let’s circle back once we have alignment,” and “I’ll drive this initiative to closure.” I didn’t fully understand what I was saying, but people nodded approvingly, which, in corporate terms, means you belong now.

But here’s the sobering part: beneath all that jargon and performative confidence was a quiet desperation, a need to sound relevant, to appear smart, to stay visible. We all just wanted to fit in, to be seen, to not be the one person in the room asking, “Wait, what does that mean?”

Maybe someday, “authenticity” will be more than just another buzzword on a PowerPoint slide.

What are some of the worst corporate buzzwords that you have heard? Comment in section below.

Dad’s Beige Bride: A Daughters’ Hilarious Nightmare of a Second Wedding

“All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.”

– Walt Disney

If we all took Walt Disney’s advice quite literally, our lives might very well become a three-ring circus. Because if I pursue every single one of my wacky, ridiculous, highly improbable dreams, I’m heading for the loony bin faster than you can say “Nutty.” But what about the other kind of dreams—the ones that flash frightening, vivid scenarios from our subconscious mind?

This post explores the unsettling intersection of fears, midlife crisis and family dynamics of aging parents, wrapped in a bizarre nightmare.

Cinematic Masterpiece of Marital Betrayal

The air in the house was thick, not with the familiar scent of her mother’s famous chili, but with a horrifying mélange of cheap lilies and pure, unadulterated bridal perfume. It smelled cloying, sickly sweet, and fundamentally wrong.

She and her sister, the dynamic duo of disgruntled offspring, were making their absolute disapproval felt, barricaded in their childhood bedroom in pajamas.

“Fifty-four years,” her sister whispered, staring at a stain on the carpet that was probably older than her. “Fifty-four years of marital bliss, only for Dad to go rogue and pick up… a beige woman.”

“Don’t call her beige,” she muttered, eyeing the wedding preparations in their parent’s home with disdain. “Beige implies subtle sophistication. She’s more of a ‘dusty mauve,’ the color of an ugly bruise.”

Their father, bless his heart (but not too much, given the circumstances), was downstairs, radiating the terrifying energy of a man who thought his mid-seventies wedding was an act of personal liberation, not a crime against their OG family.

The house, normally a cozy bastion of long-term commitment, was now overrun with strangers. There were murmurings of ‘better get dressed’ vaguely directed at the duo. Someone had the audacity to suggest ‘why don’t the girls make themselves useful.’ ‘Or else what?’ she snapped. ‘We are 46 and 49 for God’s sake and Dad is 76!’

Then, the true horror: a young woman, a stranger, yet possessing a proprietary air, wandered past the door. She stopped, glanced around with the entitlement of someone who’d already mentally chosen ‘her’ room, in ‘their’ home, and chirped, with jarring sincerity: “Oh, Dad! You’re going to make a beautiful groom!”

“Did you hear that?” her sister hissed, clutching a throw pillow like a weapon. ‘DAD!!’ “I assume that’s the ‘future stepsister.'”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “Well, that settles it. Operation ‘Hide the Wedding Rings in the Compost Bin’ is a go. But first, let’s address the true mystery of this horror show: where is Mom? Is she out getting a complicated latte? Is she even aware of the nonsense going on in her house?”

The sheer absurdity of the situation, her father, a man whose only hobby is arguing with the evening news, suddenly starring in a soap opera, was so unrealistic that a small hope was keeping her afloat. Maybe this is a dream, or more appropriately, a nightmare.

The Quieting: Dreams and reality

The noise faded. The dream’s chaotic soundtrack of strangers and silly wedding music receded, leaving an unnatural quiet that settled over the scene. The humor dissolved, leaving a sharp, tender ache.

It is often said that dreams are experiences we can’t have or miss in our conscious waking life. Our subconscious mind compensates by giving us these experiences while we sleep. It is also believed that our worst fears manifest into our dreams.

The truth of the dream was not about her father remarrying. Instead, it was a terrifying imagined world where the central pillar of her family’s life, the years of shared history, the comfortable, unshakable foundation, had simply been removed. The nightmare, in its ridiculous, awful climax, had given her a profound glimpse into a future she desperately hoped never came: a world where her aging parent’s mortality was a palpable, immediate reality.

But also, the dream was a somber, silent nod to the fierce, deep gratitude she holds for the fact that, in her real life, her happy, whole family unit is still, wonderfully, intact.

What vivid, fear-based dreams has your subconscious mind conjured up? Share your most cinematic nightmare in the comments below!

If you liked this, you’ll love “Lunchbox Wars: A Funny Mom Story About Love, Leftovers & Lost Lids”

P.S. If you enjoy what you read, there’s a little coffee link below. It keeps the words flowing and the caffeine levels honest.

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Lunchbox Wars: A Funny Mom Story About Love, Leftovers & Lost Lids

A relatable mom story about the everyday drama of packing, losing, and cleaning lunchboxes. The silent warrior of every household: the lunch-packing mom (or wife). A witty take on how love, chaos, and cold rotis define modern motherhood. This story isn’t about capes or battles, it’s about lunchboxes, expectations, and the quiet comedy of everyday life.

Every morning at 5:45 a.m., a mom begins her daily adventure, not an exciting one, but the kind only real-life superheroes know. Lined up on the kitchen counter like soldiers awaiting inspection, the lunchboxes stare back at her, judgmental, shiny, and utterly ungrateful.

The Expectation Buffet

“Something different today, okay?” comes the daily request from the school-going imp, still half asleep but fully opinionated. “You give this in my lunchbox every day”, complains the 4th grader. Kids are experts in Hyperbole, long before it’s taught in school grammar. “No bhindi,” the husband adds helpfully, sipping his tea, oblivious to the fact that she was about to start the bhindi dice-a-thon. She scrolls through her mental menu: Too oily, too bland, too unfavorite, too yesterday. Apparently, repetition is now a culinary crime. Somewhere between the pressure to come up with a magical menu that pleases everyone and the school bus honk, creativity dies a quiet death.

The Packing Olympics

The morning turns into a sport: chopping, sautéing, stirring, all while locating missing shoes and wiping a mysterious chocolate smear off a uniform.
She sprinkles coriander like confetti and seals the lids with faith. A constant mental game of who likes what is going on in her head. “Butter with aloo paratha, but not with methi paratha”. One wants cut fruit on the side, the other wants chips. “Allie’s mom always decorates the muffin with sprinkles, you never do that”. If plating was an Olympic event, she’d have medals by now. But sadly, her judges are ten-year-olds and a man who calls her idlis “nice, but not Udipi anna style.” Each lunchbox is packed not just with food, but with negotiation and a prayer.

The Return of the Lunchbox (or Not)

Evening arrives. The lunchboxes return home like guilty suspects, some half-eaten, some untouched, one missing entirely. Bringing the lunchbox back, it seems, is a favor bestowed upon mom. If she dares to ask where the missing one is, she’s met with the classic defense: “I think Sam took it by mistake.”
Sam, the mythical creature who apparently collects everyone’s tiffin. And god forbid if she forgets the evening ritual of lunchbox attendance. The next day, instead of a whiff of fresh morning air, the lunchbox sitting in the school/work bag rewards her (read punishes) with a stink that will put a skunk to shame.

The Cleaning Tragedy

At nightfall, the kitchen hosts its second shift, the resurrection of the lunchboxes. Peeling open each container is an act of bravery. There it is: the remnant of rajma, now evolved into a life form of its own. The smell? A haunting reminder of forgotten gratitude. Yet she scrubs, rinses, and dries, not because she enjoys it, but because tomorrow, the show must go on. By midyear, she could open a small museum of mismatched lids and orphaned boxes.

The Moral of the Lunchbox

By the time the world sleeps, she’s already planning tomorrow’s tiffin lineup.
The family will open their lunchboxes the next day to find parathas, cut fruit, and a silent prayer tucked between the folds. And not one of them will think, even for a second, about who cleaned the box, or remembered their favorite chutney, or noticed that the roti edges were heart-shaped by accident. Because that’s her superpower: to love, feed, and repeat, with no credits in the end.

And if they forget to bring it home again? Well, somewhere, another lunchbox is waiting to be bought.

Dedicated to every mom who packs three lunchboxes, remembers everyone’s favorite snack, and still has her tea cold.

“If you liked this, you’ll love Unsubscribing from a Service: A Modern Odyssey”

P.S. If you enjoy what you read, there’s a little coffee link below. It keeps the words flowing and the caffeine levels honest.

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Unsubscribing from a Service: A Funny Story About a Canceling Subscription Nightmare

A short, satirical fable about one user’s heroic journey through the nine circles of subscription hell.

If you’ve ever tried to cancel a subscription, you already know it’s less of a button-click and more of a spiritual journey. This funny story about a canceling subscription nightmare follows one brave soul lost in the MegaCorp labyrinth, a digital odyssey where freedom costs $9.99 a month.

Once upon a Tuesday, our brave Hero set forth on a noble quest, to cancel his subscription to MegaCorp Streaming Service. After months of auto-renewal tyranny and forgotten binge lists, today was the day. He clicked “Manage Subscription.”

And thus began the descent.

Level One: The Quest Begins – Clicking “Cancel”
A page gently suggested, “Are you sure? We’ll miss you terribly.”
The Hero, unswayed, clicked “Yes, cancel.”

Level Two: The Heart String Tug
A photo montage of smiling actors and nostalgic theme songs filled the screen.
“Just one more month for ₹99?” it whispered.
The Hero clicked “No.”

Level Three: The Checkbox of Commitment
The Hero was asked to tick a box that read, “I understand I am giving up happiness, access, and possibly my firstborn child.” The checkbox was hidden beneath three dropdown menus and a floating pop-up reminding them of what they’d miss.

Level Four: The Security Question of Shame
To proceed, the system demanded answers to long-forgotten security questions like, “What was your first pet’s favorite streaming genre?” After three failed attempts, the page politely suggested creating a new account instead.

Level Five: The CAPTCHA of Existential Dread
A grid of blurry images appeared: “Select all pictures that contain regret.” The Hero wasn’t sure whether regret looked more like a traffic light or a cold pizza, but he clicked both anyway.

Level Six: The Survey of Emotional Reflection
Before continuing, the Hero had to fill a 12-part survey asking, “Why are you leaving us?” and “On a scale of 1–10, how guilty do you feel?” The progress bar moved backwards with each answer.

Level Seven: The Loop of Eternal Return
Finally, after completing all steps, the system triumphantly redirected the Hero: back to Level Three. Somewhere deep within the MegaCorp servers, a programmer smirked.

Level Eight: Enter the Chatbot – Loyalty-3000 Awakens
A glowing chat bubble blinked to life:

👋 Hi! I’m Loyalty-3000, your cancellation concierge!
How about a free month?

“No.”

Two free months?

Three?

“Cancel.”

How about eternal friendship and a branded tote bag?

“Cancel.”

Processing request… please hold while I transfer you to my supervisor, Loyalty-4000.

Level Nine: The Final Trial – Faxing for Freedom


A pop-up declared the Hero’s freedom could only be secured by faxing a signed, notarized document to MegaCorp’s Subscription Freedom Department (open 9 a.m.–11:45 a.m., alternate Wednesdays only).

The Hero stared. The Hero screamed. The Hero bought a fax machine.

Days passed. A confirmation email finally arrived, subject line: “We’re sad to see you go (but we’re still billing you).”

And thus, the Hero realized freedom was simply a myth Big Subscription told itself to sleep better at night.

P.S. If you enjoy what you read, there’s a little coffee link below. It keeps the words flowing and the caffeine levels honest.

Buy me a coffee