Lately, what’s happening in the Middle East no longer feels like distant headlines or political debates. It’s something deeper, something darker, sinking into our collective sense of safety. The rising tensions between Iran, Israel, and the United States aren’t just regional disputes — they’re signs of a global fracture. A breaking point. A collapse silently approaching.

When I think about the possible outcomes, I try to choose my words carefully. Not because I’m afraid of being misunderstood, but because some truths are too heavy. I’m not afraid of exaggerating — I’m afraid I might be right.

Yes, I’m in what’s supposed to be the spring of my life.
But it doesn’t feel like spring.
For a while, I was still holding on to hope. Trying to imagine a future.
Trying to stay alive through small joys.
But now, even dreaming feels like a luxury.
Every day I ask myself, “What could possibly get worse?”
And every day, it does.

People don’t seem to understand how serious this war risk is.
It’s being scrolled past in social media feeds like another trending topic.
But from where I stand, it looks far more dangerous.
The entire world is walking blindly toward an edge.
And we’re stepping on billions of lifeless bodies to get there.

Being born into this time, into this chaos…
It’s painful.
It may sound dramatic, but then again — my life has never been anything but dramatic.
And yes, I’m thinking about myself.
That may sound selfish, but when everything’s collapsing, the first instinct is to breathe.
To survive.
And honestly, I don’t care what people say anymore.
Because after seeing what humans are capable of doing to one another, protecting myself feels not only valid — it feels necessary.

All I ever wanted was a simple goal:
To build a quiet, personal life.
A safe home. A space where I could live my dreams.
I never asked for much.
And yet even that felt out of reach.

Now I live with the fear that I may not even survive to try.

Everything feels meaningless now.
Even my past traumas feel distant — overshadowed by a new kind of terror.
I no longer cry easily, because for everything I want to grieve, someone somewhere is suffering worse.
And this body I carry — someday I fear I won’t be able to carry it anymore.

And I know… only a miracle could save me now.
But maybe the time for miracles has passed.

Still, I write.

Because I want to leave something behind in this world.
Because even if some people remain silent, someone else might read this and say:
“We were here. And we saw everything.”