Once upon a not so distant time, England and America moved through history like old lovers who knew each other’s steps by heart. We were not perfect, never gentle all the time, but when the night grew long and the world trembled, we reached for one another without question. There was comfort in that closeness, a feeling that no matter how loud the storm, we would not face it alone. Now, that familiarity feels like a fading photograph left too long in the sun. The bond still exists, but it is thinner, fragile at the edges, strained by a world that speaks more fluently in threats than in trust. It is almost unbelievable how quickly certainty has turned into suspicion, how easily support has been replaced by distance. It feels like watching a once great love forget why it ever mattered. Here at home, the United Kingdom feels weary. Not shattered in a dramatic moment, but worn down slowly, quietly, like stone smoothed by relentless waves. Under Starmer’s leadership, the nation seems to hold its breath. Some hope for calm, others feel the ache of disillusionment, and many simply feel tired. The streets hum with frustration, kitchens echo with worry, and the future feels heavier than it should. It is a strange sorrow to love your country while fearing for its direction, like watching someone dear drift away while insisting they are fine. Beyond our shores, the world appears restless, almost enchanted by the idea of war. It is spoken of with alarming ease, dressed up as strategy, necessity, strength. Yet there is nothing romantic about war. There is no poetry in rubble, No heroism in grieving parents, No victory that can resurrect the dead. The terror lies not just in the weapons, but in how casually we speak of using them, as though history has not already screamed its warnings. We were meant to remember. We were meant to inherit wisdom alongside freedom. The past was supposed to teach us reverence for peace, an understanding that conflict is not a rite of passage but a tragedy repeated when lessons are ignored. Instead, it feels as though humanity stands at the edge again, gazing down, convinced this time will somehow be different. And yet, I still believe in something softer. I believe peace is not weakness, but devotion. Devotion to life, to children yet unborn, to mornings that arrive without sirens. Choosing peace requires courage, the kind that does not raise its voice, the kind that listens, that bends, that refuses to let fear write the ending. I fear for my country, and I fear for the world we are shaping with our impatience and pride. But fear is also a form of love. It means we still care. Surely we can remember how to live beside one another rather than against. Surely we can fall back in love with the idea of peace, not as a dream, but as a responsibility. War should not be our destiny. Peace should be our promise.
Once, we spoke in shared mornings, in promises carried over water, old friends who knew the shape of each other’s silence. Now the world stands restless, hands trembling around matches, forgetting how easily flame becomes regret.
My country feels tired in my bones. Not broken loudly, but worn thin like fabric loved too long. Windows glow with quiet worry, streets ache with unheard prayers, and hope moves carefully, as if afraid of being noticed.
They talk of war as though it is inevitable, as though history did not beg us to remember. But I hear the ghosts between their words, the names never finished, the futures folded into flags. There is nothing brave in repeating a wound.
I watch nations drift apart, old alliances loosening their grip, love replaced by distance, distance by suspicion. Once we stood side by side. Now we stare at the horizon, each convinced the fire will spare us.
And still, I believe in quieter courage. In hands choosing to unclench. In voices that soften rather than shout. Peace is not weakness, it is the strength to stop, to remember the cost, to refuse the easy path toward destruction.
I fear for what we are becoming. I fear for the children learning the language of war before they learn the weight of peace. Yet fear is proof of love, and love, if we let it, can still pull us back from the edge.
The world leans toward fire. But it has not fallen yet. There is time to turn, to choose each other, to remember that survival is not the same as living.
Let us step away from the flame. Let us be remembered as the ones who finally learned.
Intwined 