What Does It Really Means to Care?
What Does It Really Means to Care?
Inner Pages: Letters From Ali Baran Y.
April 9, 2025
A Page from This Week
Lately, I’ve been wondering what it really means to care.
Not in a theoretical way. More like… in the middle of a quiet afternoon, when everything feels a little too silent and your phone isn’t lighting up anymore. That kind of wondering.
This week, I struggled with myself, with the people I love, with the life I’ve built, with my inner circle. What surprised me most was questioning the people closest to me. I usually don’t. In fact, I’ve always been proud of them. They are kind. Honest. Warm. I’ve always believed in their love.
For a long time, I wasn’t really that critical about close relationships. I believed everyone deserved at least one chance. I didn’t care what they believed, or how different they were. I gave them space. And I felt good about that. Human, even. But it turns out, it’s not a sustainable way to stay connected.
After university, most of my friendships slowly faded. The same thing happened after high school. Maybe I’m just not the kind of person who keeps a connection alive no matter what. And to be fair, I didn’t push either. A couple of people stayed — and gladly so. That was all, and I was happy with it.
It’s just that… some things don’t survive.
Even the most open conversations can’t fix them.
Like care.
You can support someone, love them, wish them well. But if you don’t truly care, they’ll feel it. I think I’ve started to feel that. That quiet distance. That silence where warmth should be.
The truth is, I don’t think anyone truly cares about everyone in their inner circle. And I know that because I don’t either. Maybe that’s a hard thing to admit. But I don’t want to lie. I’m not emotionally capable of caring for everyone. I don’t say that with bitterness. Just a strange kind of honesty.
A friend I care about told me recently that he was sorry—he hadn’t had time to read my emails. There was nothing harsh in his words, just a short, honest message. I was happy to receive it. Those emails held months of thoughts, invitations, questions, and even a small project idea. They were vulnerable words, written with care and intention. Even though I know people are busy—of course they are—something about that message made me pause and reflect. I would’ve read those emails—or at least tried to. I would’ve responded in a week or two. Because I care.
But that care doesn’t need to be mutual. I don’t withdraw mine just because someone else shows it differently—or not at all. It doesn’t work like that. I care because I care. That’s the reason. It’s a natural reaction. There’s no “deserves” or “doesn’t deserve” in human connection. Love and care do not keep score.
And no—I won’t bring it up. I won’t ask someone to care. I won’t say, “Why didn’t you read what I wrote?” Because I just don’t want to. If it doesn’t come naturally, I’d rather let it go.
Not everyone asked how things have been. Not everyone said, “I saw what you’ve been working on. It meant something.” One friend gently questioned the worth of my writing—not unkindly, just with that careful tone people use when they’re unsure how to respond to someone doing something that matters to them. Another never subscribed. No one said, “Don’t say it was a bug or someone’s pity—you were listed, and it was fair.” A few voices reached out, and I was so happy to hear them. I welcomed their kindness with an open heart. Still, there weren’t many congratulations. Just a quiet kind of silence.
And again, it’s okay.
I don’t think any of it comes from a bad place. I really don’t.
But it pushed me to think about my value, my presence.
And how frustrated I’ve become with people assuming that I’m always okay or I’m unshakable, untouchable.
Which is true, in some ways.
I am always okay and it is hard to hurt my feelings.
Maybe… maybe the one who doesn’t care at all is me.
It’s a bit unexpected, but this week I found myself drawn to opera. I’ve always had a soft spot for classical music, even though I know next to nothing about it. Still, there’s something deeply moving about it. The voices, the drama, the sheer emotion. I’ve long admired classical musicians, musicals, and the world of opera from afar.
What surprised me most, though, was discovering Emmy Rossum — the actress I knew from Shameless — singing like an angel in The Phantom of the Opera. I had to pause for a second. Wait, she can sing like that? I was genuinely stunned. The voice, the presence… it was something else.
Notes to Self
I'm still working on Desponia’s story, and — fingers crossed — I’ll be sharing Part II on Substack next week. Just a reminder: it will be free for the first three days. After that, you'll need to be a paid subscriber to read it. It’s not super expensive — and honestly, if you could skip two beers a month and support Inner Pages, I’d be incredibly grateful. It actually helps more than you think. I want this project to always stay free and open, and for now I’m happy to cover the costs but yeah, you get my point, dear reader.
Oh, and another big announcement!! I’m starting my club/workshop thingy in Valladolid! I’m so excited about this. I’ll be hosting an English-speaking club at the library café I mentioned before — Akellare. If you’re in Valladolid, come by and join us for a chat. It’s totally free.
Also… I’m back to teaching English online! If you’d like to practice speaking with me, you can book a session here: click here to see the coolest, funniest, and cutest English tutor.
And lastly, I'm open for commissions! If you’ve got a project in mind — a collaboration, a zine, something creative — I’m all ears. I'm currently an unemployed newsletter writer in search of meaning (and some cool stuff to work on). Let’s make something beautiful.
Actually, How are you doing? Is everything alright?
That’s it for this week—thank you for spending a little time with Inner Pages. It means the world that you’re here, reading these words. If something in this letter resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts—just hit reply.
If you enjoyed this, consider forwarding it to a friend who might like it too. Sharing keeps this little space alive and growing. And if you’d like to support my work in other ways, you can buy me a coffee or simply keep reading—that’s more than enough.
Until next time, keep wandering.
Ali Baran Y.