Stream of Consciousness
Solution Sharpens Vision. Growth Demands Isolation.
Amara had always been surrounded by noise. From childhood, her days were filled with the clamor of family, the chatter of friends, and the constant hum of the city she called home. She thrived in social settings, energized by the presence of others. But deep inside, a small voice whispered that something was missing — a clarity she had yet to find.
By Mahayud Dinabout a year ago in Confessions
I Got a Message From My Dead Brother on Instagram
It was 2:13 a.m. when my phone buzzed, lighting up the darkness beside my bed. Half-asleep, I reached for it, expecting another spam DM or maybe one of those “are you awake?” texts from someone who shouldn’t matter anymore. But when I saw the name, I stopped breathing.
By Ava Writes Truthabout a year ago in Confessions
What If the Titanic Was Sunk on Purpose?
I can’t get the image out of my head, the Titanic, that monstrous ship everyone worships as a tragedy of fate, not a crime. My friend Mark’s obsession with this theory has been haunting me lately, and I swear, it’s like peeling back a layer of a nightmare I never wanted to see.
By Ava Writes Truthabout a year ago in Confessions
I Wasn’t Too Much—They Just Weren’t Enough: Unlearning the Myth of Being 'Difficult
For the longest time, I believed I was the problem. I was “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” “too outspoken,” “too needy.” That word—too—haunted me. It followed me like an unwanted nickname. In relationships, at work, in friendships, I constantly felt like I was walking on eggshells just to keep everyone comfortable. And when I finally spoke up about my boundaries, discomforts, or needs, I was met with blank stares, raised eyebrows, or the classic passive-aggressive sigh. I internalized it. I wore it like a badge. I was difficult. I was hard to love. I was “a lot.” But turns out—I was never difficult. I was just loud about my needs in a world that benefits from my silence. It started with small things. I remember being 8 years old and asking a teacher if I could sit away from the window because the sunlight gave me headaches. She waved me off with a, “You’ll be fine, don’t be dramatic.” So I learned to shrink into discomfort. I learned early that voicing my needs made me annoying. Fast forward to my twenties, and this played out everywhere. In relationships, I was the girlfriend who “overanalyzed” when I asked for more emotional availability. I’d express how being left on read for days made me feel insignificant, and I’d hear, “Why do you always have to make a big deal out of everything?” In jobs, when I spoke up about being overworked or about needing more time to complete a project, I was seen as “not a team player.” I watched others stay quiet and get ahead, while I stayed honest and got sidelined. For years, I molded myself to fit. I spoke softly. I made myself agreeable. I praised others before myself. I tolerated discomfort so others wouldn’t have to. Until one day—I burned out. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. I was running on fumes. I was living a version of myself that was palatable but painfully inauthentic. Then something changed. It wasn’t a grand epiphany or a dramatic wake-up call. It was a quiet realization during a therapy session. My therapist asked, “What would happen if you believed that your needs are valid?” I didn’t know how to answer. That sentence sat with me like a seed in soil, and over the next few months, it grew into something I hadn’t felt in years: permission. Permission to take up space. Permission to stop apologizing for having needs. Permission to ask, without shame, for what would make me feel safe, heard, valued. So I started small. I said no to a social gathering when I felt drained—and didn’t make up an excuse. I asked my partner to communicate daily—not because I was clingy, but because connection matters to me. I told my boss I wasn’t available after work hours—and didn’t flinch when it made her uncomfortable. I started standing up for the little girl who wasn’t allowed to move her seat by the window. It wasn’t easy. The first few times I was met with confusion or defensiveness. But slowly, something incredible happened: I began attracting people who didn’t make me feel like too much. People who saw my honesty as strength, not annoyance. Spaces where being direct wasn’t rude—it was respected. I used to think being “easygoing” made me lovable. But now, I know being authentic is what makes me magnetic. And I’ve learned that people who benefit from your silence will always call you difficult when you begin to speak. I share this story not because I’ve mastered it—there are still moments when I hesitate before expressing myself, still flashes of that old fear of being “too much.” But now, I remind myself: I’m not too much. I’m just clear. I’m just aware. I’m just worthy. Being loud about your needs isn’t a flaw—it’s a sign of self-respect. And I wish someone had told me sooner that you don’t have to earn that right. So to the person reading this, wondering if you're too complicated, too demanding, or too expressive—I offer you this: You’re not difficult. You’re not broken. You’re not too much. You’re just finally showing up as someone who won’t shrink anymore. And that’s a beautiful, powerful thing.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
I Became a Stranger to Stay Alive
I never imagined I’d wake up one day and not recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. The eyes were mine. The scars were mine. But the soul? That was someone else’s—someone I had to become just to make it through. Before everything changed, I was a teacher. A mother. A wife. A friend. I had a loud laugh and an open door. People said I made a home feel like safety. But when the war came, when the air itself turned to ash and fear, I learned that love and laughter weren’t enough. Not when survival demanded silence. Not when the walls had ears, and names on paper could mean death. We lived in Syria—Aleppo—once beautiful, ancient, breathing history in every street. I used to take my daughter Mariam to the citadel on weekends, feeding the pigeons, telling her stories of queens and warriors. Then came the bombings. The checkpoints. The disappearances. The first time I truly felt like a stranger to myself was the night my husband didn’t come home. He had gone out to find bread. Just bread. Hours passed. Then days. The phone never rang. The door never opened. That’s when I knew. And something inside me began to die—not just the hope of seeing him again, but the woman who believed life still made sense. Soon, the threats came. They said I was teaching “the wrong history.” They said my name was on a list. I had two choices: stay and die as the woman I was—or disappear and live as someone else. So I chose life. Or at least, a version of it. I left everything behind. My clothes, my books, even my name. I dressed in garments I never wore before, wrapped my identity in layers of silence. Mariam stopped calling me “Mama” in public. I stopped speaking to strangers. I stopped laughing. We fled north, then west. Walking. Hiding. Running. At night, I whispered old lullabies to her, my voice cracking with fear. She was only six, but she carried the weight of survival on her tiny shoulders better than I ever could. We reached Turkey. A refugee camp. A different world. There, I met a woman named Amal. She gave me her extra scarf. Shared her bread. She had also lost a husband. Also had a daughter. We cried in silence the first time we sat together. We didn't need words. We were mirrors. In the camp, I taught again—under a makeshift tent, with paper scraps and chalk pieces. The children called me "teacher," but I didn’t feel like one. I didn’t feel like anything. Just a ghost in borrowed skin. Then one day, a little boy in class asked, “Teacher, what was your name before the war?” I froze. Before the war. It felt like a lifetime ago. I almost said it—my real name. The one my mother gave me. The one my husband whispered in love. But I caught myself. That name belonged to a life I had buried. “I don’t remember,” I lied, forcing a smile. That night, I cried harder than I had in months. Not because of the lie—but because it was starting to feel true. But here’s the strange thing: even in that emptiness, life grew. I became stronger. Sharper. I learned how to navigate embassies. How to protect my daughter. How to advocate for others. I became a woman who knew how to disappear—and yet be seen. Eventually, we made it to Europe. A resettlement program. A new apartment with white walls and locked windows. Mariam started school. I found work cleaning offices at night and translating during the day. I was nobody. And yet, I was everything my daughter needed. A year later, during a citizenship interview, the officer asked me, “Do you feel you’ve adapted to your new life?” Adapted. I smiled politely and nodded. But inside, I thought: No, I haven’t adapted. I’ve transformed. I’ve become someone else entirely. And yet, the strangest thing? This stranger I became—this quiet, resilient, invisible woman—I learned to love her. Because she kept my daughter alive. Because she buried the past and built a future. Because she endured. I don’t know if I’ll ever return to Syria. I don’t know if the old me still exists. But I’ve made peace with my reflection now. With the stranger in the mirror. Sometimes, to survive, you have to let go of who you were. Sometimes, the only way to stay alive… is to become someone else entirely.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
I Didn't Know Who I Was Until I Lost Everything
I used to think I had it all figured out. A steady job in finance, a penthouse apartment with a skyline view, and a social circle that toasted to success every Friday night. From the outside, my life looked perfect. But in truth, it was all a carefully crafted illusion—a mask I wore so well I forgot it wasn’t me. Then, in the span of six months, everything unraveled. It started with the market crash. The investment firm I worked for began downsizing, and despite my performance, my position was deemed “non-essential.” They let me go with a severance package and a polite thank you. I told myself it was temporary. I’d bounce back. I always did. But I didn’t. My savings dwindled faster than I expected. Job interviews turned into dead ends. My resume, once impressive, now felt outdated in a rapidly shifting world. Rent became impossible to keep up with, and eventually, I had to give up the apartment. I moved in with a distant cousin, swallowing the bitter pill of pride. Then came the next blow—my girlfriend of four years left me. She said I wasn’t the man I used to be. She wasn’t wrong, but the man I used to be was built on ego, materialism, and a false sense of identity. One morning, I found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror of my cousin’s guest bathroom. I barely recognized the hollow eyes looking back. No job. No home. No love. No direction. I had nothing left—except time. So I started walking. It sounds strange, but I walked for hours each day. Through neighborhoods I’d never seen. Past schools and shops and parks filled with laughter. I walked until the ache in my legs numbed the noise in my mind. During one of these walks, I wandered into a small local library. It wasn’t intentional—I just needed a place to sit. The librarian, a silver-haired woman with gentle eyes, asked if I needed help. I told her I didn’t know. She smiled and said, “That’s okay. Sometimes the best stories start with not knowing.” That sentence stayed with me. Over the next few weeks, I kept coming back. I read books—not financial reports or business articles, but real stories. Fiction, memoirs, philosophy. I read about people who lost everything and found purpose. I read about simplicity, about mindfulness, about living with less and feeling more. Each page was a mirror, slowly showing me the pieces of myself I had ignored for years. I started volunteering at a local shelter, not out of charity, but because I needed to feel useful. For the first time in years, I listened to people without thinking about how to respond. I learned their stories—real stories filled with pain, resilience, humor, and hope. And then, one day, it clicked. All my life, I had built my identity around what I owned, who I knew, and how successful I appeared. But when all of that was stripped away, what remained was raw and real—my curiosity, my empathy, my desire to connect. I wasn’t the polished finance guy anymore. I was someone who had been broken open—and through that break, something new began to grow. Today, my life looks very different. I work for a nonprofit that helps displaced families rebuild their lives. I rent a modest studio apartment that I’ve made my own, filled with books and plants and a quiet kind of peace. I write in the mornings—journals, short stories, even articles like this one. And I walk every day, just to remember how far I’ve come. Losing everything didn’t destroy me. It introduced me to myself. If you’re reading this and feel like your world is falling apart, I want you to know something: sometimes the breaking is the beginning. Sometimes what looks like the end is just life gently ripping away the layers that no longer serve you. You are not your job. You are not your relationship. You are not your bank account. You are the stories you tell, the kindness you give, the resilience you build in the silence between the noise. I didn’t know who I was until I lost everything. But now, I wouldn’t trade that loss for anything. Because in the wreckage, I found the truth—and that truth set me free.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
Healing Isn’t Pretty—It’s a Fight You Don’t Post About
They said healing would feel like peace. Like finally exhaling. Like warm baths and yoga mats and closing toxic doors with a graceful smile. They lied. Healing, as I experienced it, was raw. Ugly. Messy. It looked nothing like the gentle images on Pinterest boards or the soft affirmations spoken by women in calm voices over lavender fields on Instagram Reels. No one prepared me for what it actually feels like to rebuild yourself from the inside out. It started when I left him. To the outside world, we were fine. A little unstable maybe, but who isn’t? I had learned to wear the right makeup over bruises, both on my skin and in my soul. I had learned how to laugh on cue and pose for pictures with just enough sparkle in my eyes to convince others — and maybe myself — that it wasn’t that bad. But it was. And I broke. Quietly, completely, and without ceremony. The night I left, I didn't feel brave. I felt terrified. I didn’t feel empowered. I felt like a fraud, walking out the door with a garbage bag of clothes and a panic attack in my throat. That wasn’t peace. That wasn’t healing. That was survival. The weeks that followed weren’t romantic either. I wasn’t journaling and meditating under moonlight. I was sleeping on a friend’s couch, crying so hard in the shower that I had to sit down. I was losing weight not because I was taking care of my body, but because anxiety made food taste like sand. I had panic attacks in grocery stores and flashbacks in the middle of work calls. I didn’t feel like a phoenix. I felt like ashes that forgot how to burn. I started therapy — reluctantly, skeptically, because I wasn’t sure what I’d even say. But that first session? I sobbed like a child. My therapist didn’t hand me solutions. She handed me tissues and silence — and somehow, that was more healing than anything else. For once, someone let me fall apart without rushing me to “get better.” That’s when I realized something they never tell you: healing is not linear. It’s not a steady climb to a glorious mountaintop. It’s jagged. Some days you feel free and alive. Other days, you’re on the bathroom floor, wondering if you made a mistake. There were nights I wanted to go back. Just to feel something familiar. Just to not be alone. But I held on — sometimes barely, sometimes resentfully, but I held on. I started to understand that healing meant looking in the mirror and facing the parts of myself I had ignored. The codependency. The people-pleasing. The way I confused pain with love. That wasn’t just hard — it was humiliating. I had to forgive myself for all the times I silenced my instincts. All the times I stayed too long. All the times I betrayed myself in the name of loyalty. Healing looked like setting boundaries and feeling guilty about them. It looked like crying after saying no, and still holding the line. It looked like building a new life brick by shaky brick, with no applause, no milestone posts, no one really seeing the battle I fought daily just to stay whole. But slowly — painfully — things changed. I found an apartment. My own. Just a small studio, but it smelled like lavender and freedom. I started sleeping through the night without waking up in a cold sweat. I picked up books I used to love, started cooking again, called my mom more. Little things. Quiet victories. And one day, I laughed. A real laugh. The kind that bubbles up from your chest without asking permission. And I realized: this is healing too. Not the polished kind. Not the aesthetic kind. But the kind where your soul starts breathing again. I still have bad days. There are still triggers, flashbacks, shame spirals. But I don’t drown in them anymore. I’ve learned to ride the waves instead of getting swept under. Healing looks like trusting yourself again. Like saying, “I deserve better,” and meaning it. Like finally — after everything — choosing yourself without apology. So no, healing isn’t pretty. It’s not always peaceful. It doesn’t come wrapped in self-help quotes or bath
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
The Things I Never Said Out Loud — Until Now
I don’t remember the first time I stayed quiet when I wanted to speak. Maybe it was at five years old when I heard my parents fight through the wall, and I sat in bed with my hands over my ears, wondering if it was my fault.
By nawab sagarabout a year ago in Confessions
I Walked Out Without Saying Goodbye. Here's Why.
I walked out without saying goodbye. No final glance, no tearful hugs, no apologies whispered through trembling lips. I just left. To the outside world, that makes me the villain. I’m okay with that now. But here's why I did it—and why I had to. --- I was twenty-six, living in a city that felt more like a cage than a home. I had a job I didn’t love, a partner who had long stopped listening, and friends who didn’t notice when I disappeared for weeks. I had built a life that looked good on Instagram, but inside, I was unraveling. Every morning I would wake up with a weight on my chest—a heaviness I couldn’t explain. I told myself it was just stress. Just burnout. Just life. But the truth was much simpler: I was suffocating under the expectations of others and the lies I told myself to stay afloat. It wasn’t one dramatic moment that broke me. It was the thousand little ones that stacked like bricks until the wall around me was too high to see over. Like how my partner, Alex, would scroll on their phone while I spoke about my dreams. Or how my mother’s voice would harden every time I mentioned wanting to travel alone. Or how my boss told me I was “too emotional” when I cried after working 80 hours in a week. So I did what I had never done before. I stopped explaining myself. --- The idea came suddenly, like a whisper from somewhere deep inside me: Leave. Just leave. At first, I laughed it off. I’m not that kind of person. I don’t just vanish. But then I imagined it. I imagined waking up in a different city, with no one expecting me to be anything but a stranger. I imagined silence—not the kind filled with guilt or loneliness, but the kind that feels like peace. I started planning in secret. A one-way ticket to Lisbon. A sublet arranged under a different name. A letter to my landlord. I packed a single suitcase, sold what I could, and donated the rest. The night before I left, I stood in the doorway of the apartment I shared with Alex. They were asleep, mouth slightly open, the soft rhythm of their breathing filling the room. I watched for a while, wondering if I should wake them. Tell them. Say goodbye. But I didn’t. Because it wouldn’t be goodbye. It would be another argument. Another manipulation disguised as concern. Another round of “You’re being selfish,” and “What about me?” So I walked out. Quietly. Keys on the counter. Phone wiped clean. No note. --- The first few weeks were terrifying. I second-guessed everything. I felt guilty. I missed people—until I remembered how little they had really seen me. I kept waiting for the anger, the messages, the backlash. But here’s the strange part: It never came. Not a single person called. I realized I had spent years building relationships based on obligation, not love. Presence, not connection. And when I left, it was like I had erased a ghost version of myself. One that had been haunting her own life. In Lisbon, I started over. I worked in a bookstore where no one knew my name. I took long walks near the water. I dyed my hair. I wrote again. I didn’t recognize myself, but for the first time, that was a good thing. --- A year has passed now. Sometimes, when I sip my morning coffee on the small balcony of my rented apartment, I think about that night I left. About how a single decision—one that took me less than five minutes to make—changed everything. Was it selfish? Maybe. But was it necessary? Absolutely. --- I’m not suggesting everyone walk away without saying goodbye. But if you're reading this and feel something stir inside you, something aching for permission—maybe this is it. You don’t have to explain your pain to people who refuse to see it. You don’t have to shrink to fit into lives that no longer have room for your growth. You don’t owe anyone a goodbye that costs you your peace. --- So yes, I walked out. And no, I didn’t say goodbye. But for the first time in my life, I finally said hello—to myself.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
The First Time I Laughed After He Died, I Felt Like a Traitor
The first time I laughed after he died, I felt like a traitor. It wasn’t a polite chuckle or a weak smile. It was real—genuine and loud. The kind of laugh that escapes your chest before your brain can catch it. The kind of laugh that feels like life itself. And the moment it ended, guilt crashed over me like a wave. How could I laugh? How could I feel anything but broken? It had been 47 days since my husband, Aaron, died. A heart attack in the middle of a Thursday. No warning. No goodbye. One minute we were texting about groceries, and the next, I was standing in an emergency room under flickering fluorescent lights, listening to a doctor say words that made no sense. They said "passed away.” But it felt more like disappeared. I moved through the following weeks in a blur. Friends dropped off casseroles. My mother stayed for a while. Our dog, Remy, stopped sleeping in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. Everything in our home felt too still, like even the walls were holding their breath. Then came the day I laughed. It was a Sunday afternoon. My best friend, Elise, had finally convinced me to leave the house and take a walk in the park. “You don’t have to talk,” she said, “Just breathe.” We were sitting on a bench near the duck pond, watching two toddlers feed bread to a group of aggressive geese. One of the geese lunged for the bag of bread, and the toddler screamed and fell backward—completely unhurt but dramatically offended. The way his face contorted in betrayal, the theatrical way he looked to his mom, made something inside me crack. And I laughed. I laughed so hard I cried. Then I stopped, mid-breath, as if I had been caught doing something shameful. Elise noticed the change. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re allowed.” But I wasn’t so sure. That night, I stood in the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror. I looked tired. Thinner. Older. And in the middle of my grief-ravaged face, I could still feel the ghost of that laughter lingering on my lips. I wanted to scrub it off, like it was a stain. Because part of me believed that if I let joy in—even for a second—I was letting go of him. And letting go felt like betrayal. Aaron and I had been together twelve years. We met at a bookstore, fell in love over coffee and cheap wine, built a life from mismatched furniture and inside jokes. We didn’t have children—just dreams we were slowly working toward. A road trip up the Pacific Coast. A fixer-upper house we’d turn into a home. A future that was taken away in an instant. For weeks after his death, I wore my grief like armor. It protected me. Defined me. Made me feel closer to him, in some strange way. I thought: if I hurt enough, maybe he’d know I hadn’t forgotten. If I smiled too soon, maybe he’d think I had. But grief doesn’t work like that. Love doesn’t disappear when laughter returns. It took time—months—for me to understand that. That laughter didn’t mean I was moving on. It meant I was still here. Still living. That the love we had wasn’t buried with him; it was planted in me. Growing roots in everything I did. In the way I still sang off-key in the car. In the way I talked to his photo every morning. In the way I eventually learned how to smile without shame. Some days I still feel the ache. In the grocery aisle where I find his favorite brand of cereal. In a movie line he would have quoted. In the space beside me at night that no one else can fill. But grief, I’ve learned, is not a straight line. It's a spiral. You return to the pain again and again—but each time with more strength, more softness, more room to let the light in. The first time I laughed after he died, I felt like a traitor. But now, I know better. Now, I understand that laughter is not a betrayal—it’s a rebellion. A small, defiant way to say: I’m still here. I still carry you. I still feel joy. Because of you. In spite of you. With you. And somewhere, somehow, I believe he's smiling too.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
Some Days I Pretend He’s Just at a Friend’s House
It’s been 431 days since I last saw my son. But some days, I pretend he’s just at a friend’s house. I imagine his laughter echoing in someone else’s living room, his sneakers kicked off by the door, his phone left charging on the kitchen counter. I tell myself he’s staying up late playing video games, eating pizza rolls straight from the oven, yelling strategies over a headset. I picture him rolling his eyes when I call to check in. “Mom, I’m fine,” he would say, dragging out the word with teenage disdain, “I’m just at Jason’s.” That lie—that beautiful lie—has become my survival. Because the truth is too cruel. Ethan was fourteen. One month from his fifteenth birthday. It was a rainy Thursday when the accident happened. One second he was pedaling his bike down Oakwood Street, late for soccer practice, and the next—just gone. The car, the driver, the silence. The kind of tragedy you read about but never expect to live through. I don’t remember the scream that escaped me when the officers told me. I only remember the silence afterward, how it pressed in on my ears, thick and choking like smoke. How the walls of our home, once loud with music and arguments and jokes, became graveyards of sound. His room is still the same. Blue walls. Posters of Messi and Marvel superheroes. A pile of laundry I never got to scold him for. I sit on the edge of his bed some nights and talk to the emptiness, telling him things like, “Don’t forget your jacket,” or, “I made your favorite pasta.” And when my voice breaks in the middle of a sentence, I pretend it’s because he interrupted me—just out of frame. I know what people think. I see it in their eyes when they visit. They tiptoe around his name like it’s a curse, afraid I’ll shatter if they say it too loudly. They ask if I’ve considered therapy. If I’ve “moved on.” As if grief has an expiration date. As if you can pack away a child’s memory into cardboard boxes and tuck them into a closet labeled PAST. But grief doesn’t ask permission. It takes up space. It sleeps in your bed, eats your meals, and whispers in your ear at night. It holds your hand when you’re alone and punches you in the chest when you hear a song he used to hum absentmindedly. Still, I manage. I go to work. I smile when I have to. I send Christmas cards with one less name. I’ve learned how to live around the missing piece—how to speak without crying, how to laugh without guilt. But some days, I fall apart. And on those days, I pretend he’s just at a friend’s house. It’s the little things that trick me—a jacket slung over a chair, a soccer ball in the garage, the way sunlight hits the corner of the hallway where he used to drop his backpack. I’ll find myself calling out, “Ethan, did you feed the dog?” before remembering that the dog passed away six months after him, as if it too couldn’t bear the weight of the silence. I’ve stopped correcting myself. Letting the illusion play out feels kinder than dragging my heart through the truth every hour. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe healing isn’t always about accepting loss. Maybe it’s about learning to love in the present tense, even when the person you love exists only in memory. Maybe it’s okay to pretend, as long as the pretending helps you breathe. Last week, I baked his favorite cookies. The house smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, like school bake sales and rainy afternoons. I set a few aside on a plate and placed them on the kitchen counter like I used to. For a moment, I imagined him bounding down the stairs, hair a mess, mouth open in a grin, grabbing two before I could say, “Just one!” And in that moment, the ache softened. The house didn’t feel so empty. Love has a long echo. It lingers in doorways, in the scent of old T-shirts, in the click of light switches. It survives, even when the person doesn’t. And so, I love him in the only way I can now—through memory, imagination, and the quiet lies I tell myself on hard days. Some days, I pretend he’s just at a friend’s house. And for a little while, I believe it.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
