There’s a certain kind of question that lingers longer than expected. Not because you don’t know the answer—but because the answer shifts every time you grow. What are you curious about? It sounds simple at first—maybe even playful—but the longer I sit with it, the more I realize it touches something deeper than wonder. It touches longing. It brushes against all the places in me that are still aching, still searching, still asking quietly beneath the surface of everyday life.

These days, I’m not so much curious about facts or headlines or the next big thing. I’m curious about people—their silences, their thresholds, their quiet strength. I’m curious about what keeps someone kind after they’ve been disappointed one too many times. What do they tell themselves on the nights they want to give up but don’t? I want to understand what happens in the split second after someone decides to stay—stay alive, stay present, stay soft, stay hopeful—when they have every reason to walk away. I wonder about the invisible battles—the losses that aren’t dramatic enough to be mourned out loud: the fading of friendships, the disappointment that comes quietly, the days when someone shows up smiling even though something inside them has quietly died.

LOVE

I think often about love—not the romantic kind alone, but the kind that stays. The kind that forgives even when it’s hard. The kind that shows up not because it’s convenient, but because it’s true. I’m curious about the people who give that kind of love and where they learned it. Or if, like me, they’re still trying to figure it out as they go. I find myself wondering about the former versions of people—the ones they don’t speak about anymore. The girl who loved too loudly. The boy who stopped believing he was allowed to cry. The strong ones who carry everyone else and still go home feeling empty. I want to know where we hide the parts of ourselves we outgrow. And what’s left behind after we bury them.

I’m curious about all the things we don’t say.

The memories triggered by a scent, the stories behind someone’s silence, the truths folded inside people’s laughter. I wonder how many people are grieving right now and smiling through it because they don’t know what else to do. I think about nurses who carry the weight of someone else’s pain and still have to get on with their day. I think about caregivers, mothers, breadwinners, quiet survivors. I’m curious about how they do it. How they live with that much tenderness and still manage to stand tall. And truthfully? I’m curious if any of the things I do—the small acts of care, the voice notes, the check-ins, the remembering of birthdays and little stories—if any of it truly stays with the people I love. If it makes any real difference. If my gentleness reaches them the way I hope it does.

But maybe, more than curiosity, what I’m really carrying is care. A care so deep it makes me notice things others overlook. A care that makes me ask questions no one says out loud. I think curiosity, when it comes from the heart, becomes a kind of devotion. A quiet, stubborn kind of love that says: I see you. I want to understand. I’m still listening. Even when no one else asks.

So, what am I curious about?

I’m curious about how people live with all that feeling. All that remembering. All that invisible effort. And I hope I never stop being curious—because it means I’m still open. Still soft. Still here.

— Anj ❤️