poems · written by Nyra
The quiet part of me
A place for the words I never said.
on the smile I wear
The Heart I Couldn’t Show
I wish I could say it.
All the wordsI kept buried inside.
The feelings I hidbehind a smile,
the tears I swallowedwhen nobody was looking.
People say,
"Just open your heart."
But what if my heartdoesn't know how to speak?
What if every timeI try to explain,
my voice disappearsbefore the words arrive?
I never wantedto seem distant.
I never wantedto push you away.
I just didn't knowhow to ask for comfort
without feeling likea burden.
So I learned to smile.
I learned to say,
"I'm fine."
I learned to hidethe storms inside me.
But sometimes,
I wish someone would notice—
not the smile,
not the mask,
but the quiet part of methat is begging to be understood.
I don't need youto fix everything.
I don't need perfect words.
I only want someoneto sit beside me
and say,
"I know you're hurting.
You don't have to hide anymore."
Because even a silent heart
is still a heart.
And even the quietest soul
still wishes
to be heard.
on the tears I keep
The Rain That Couldn’t Cry
The sky looks beautiful today,
but I know better.
Some stormsdo not come with thunder.
Some stormslive quietly inside the heart.
I keep searchingfor the right words,
but every feelingturns into silencebefore it reaches my lips.
I want to say,
"I'm tired."
I want to say,
"I need someone."
But my voice disappears,
and I become someonewho smiles through the rain.
People see the calm.
They never seethe waves crashing underneath.
They never hearthe questions I ask myselfwhen the night becomes too long.
Am I too much?
Am I not enough?
Why does wanting to be understoodfeel like asking for the impossible?
I keep giving pieces of myselfuntil there is almost nothing left.
And still,
I say,
"I'm okay."
Maybe I'm just a cloudholding too much water,
waiting for the momentI can finally let it fall.
So if one dayyou see my tears,
please don't ask mewhy I am crying.
Just stay.
Because sometimes,
a heart doesn't need answers.
It only needs someonewho won't leavewhen the rain begins.
on the words that cut
Silent Rage
I'm tired.
Not of the world,
but of the noise it creates.
The voices that judgewithout knowing the story.
The words thrown like weaponsfrom people who never learnedhow much they can hurt.
They speak so easily.
They break so casually.
Then they walk awayas if nothing happened.
But I remember.
I remember every scarleft by careless words.
Every momentI had to pretendI wasn't affected.
They tell me to ignore it.
They tell me to stay calm.
But how do you stay silentwhen your heart is screaming?
How do you smilewhen anger burnsunder your skin?
Sometimes I want to shout.
Sometimes I want the whole worldto feel the weightof what they caused.
But I know—
anger is a fire.
It can warm you,
or it can consume you.
So I'll turn my frustrationinto strength.
I'll let my voice become louderthan their hatred.
I'll keep walking forward,
not because it didn't hurt,
but because I refuseto let their words
become my ending.
on the boy no one noticed
Lonely Boy
There goes the lonely boy,smiling just enoughto convince the worldhe's doing fine.
No one noticeshow heavy silence becomeswhen the room empties,or how every laughis followedby another sleepless night.
He carries stormsbehind gentle eyes,
and every"I'm okay"is another liehe's learnedto tell so well.
He watches peoplefind a placeto call homein someone else's heart,while he keeps wonderingwhat it feels liketo be chosen.
To be someone'sfirst thought.
Someone's safe place.
Someone's reasonto stay.
He isn't askingfor the whole world.
Just one personwho will noticewhen his smile fades,who will hold his handwithout letting go,who will look at himand say,
"You don't have tocarry everything alone."
Until then,
he'll keep walking,
a lonely boywith a heartstill brave enoughto believe
that one day,
someone will call it
home.
on finding my way
A Cat Beneath the Stars
Somewhere between the galaxies,
there is a little heart
floating alone.
Not lost,
just searching
for a place
where it can finally rest.
The universe is so wide,
yet loneliness
can still feel
like the smallest room.
I chase after stars
that disappear by morning.
I hold onto dreams
that slip through my paws.
I wonder if the moon
ever feels lonely too,
watching everyone leave
while it stays behind.
Maybe I'm just a small creature
in an endless sky,
trying to understand
why I feel everything
so deeply.
But even in the darkest ocean
of endless space,
there is still a light
waiting to be found.
A gentle voice.
A warm hand.
A place that says,
"You don't have to wander anymore."
So I'll keep swimming
through this universe,
through the storms,
through the silence,
until I find my little corner
among the stars.
And when I look back,
I'll know—
I was never drowning.
I was only learning
how to find my way home.
on forgiving myself
The War Behind My Name
I learned to wear my silencelike armor beneath my skin,to smile as though nothing hurtwhile the war inside continued.
Nobody taught me how to fall apart.They only taught me how to stand,how to wipe the tears before they fell,how to make a trembling heartlook steady in my hands.
So I became my own battlefield,my own enemy, my own retreat.Some nights, I hated every weaknessthat made me feel too much,too deeply,too honestly.
I blamed myself for every ending,replayed every word until it bled,searched for something wrong with mein every silence someone left behind.
As if being abandonedmeant I was never worth staying for.As if being hurtmeant I deserved the pain.
But I'm tired of standing trialfor every wound I didn't understand.Tired of punishing the girl in the mirrorfor doing the best she couldwith a heart she never learned to protect.
There are things about meI still struggle to forgive.Fears I haven't conquered,old thoughts that still return,memories that know exactlywhere to find me in the dark.
I won't call myself healedjust because I learned to hide it better.
I am still becoming.Still unlearning the instinctto call myself unworthywhenever someone chooses to leave.
And maybe the hardest fightisn't convincing the world I'm strong.Maybe it's looking at my reflectionand refusing to become cruelto the person who has suffered the most.
Me.
I have survived daysI never knew how to explain,carried grief without a name,and begged for peacein a language only my heart understood.
Yet here I stand—not untouched,not fearless,not some beautiful storyabout turning pain into gold.
Just human.
A woman with cracks in her courage,with anger she is learning to hold,with love that sometimes costs too much,and a future she hasn't met yet.
I will not erase my pastto prove I've changed.I will not pretend the darknessnever knew my name.
It knew me.It hurt me.Sometimes, I let it speak for me.
But it doesn't get to writeevery page that comes after.
I am more than the worst thoughtI've ever believed about myself.More than the nights I couldn't cope.More than the people I couldn't keep.
I don't need to win every battleto deserve a gentler life.
So let the scars remain.Let the truth be imperfect.Let the world see a womanwho is still learning how to livewithout turning against herself.
I have spent enough yearstrying to prove I am worth loving.
Now I want to learnhow to stand beside myselfeven when nobody else does.
And if tomorrow finds mestill fighting the same old war,I will meet myself without hatred.
Not because I have conquered everything,but because, after all this time,I am finally learningthat I was never my enemy.
I was the onewho needed me most.
on swallowing it
Cause It’s Easier
One step closer.One step closer.
Then I lost.
Ah, I wasn't okay.I'm not okay.
But it's life, soI swallow it.
Again.Again.
Until there's nothing left to swallow,until the silence fills my chest,until I can't tellif my heart is healingor simply giving up on being heard.
Hey,why are you doing this?
Why do you keep smilingwhen everything inside youis begging you to stop?
Why do you keep saying"It's fine,"when you know it isn't?
Why do you keep swallowingthe words that might save youfrom drowning in your own silence?
...
Because it's easier.
Easier than explaining.Easier than being misunderstood.Easier than watching someone's face changewhen they realize you're not as okayas you pretended to be.
Easier to say nothingthan to explain the stormto someone who only cameto ask about the weather.
So I swallow it.
The disappointment.The exhaustion.The little pieces of myselfI keep losingjust to make it through another day.
Again.Again.
Until my throat forgetswhat it feels like to speak,until my eyes grow tiredof holding back the rain.
And somewhere inside me,a small voice still asks:
How much of yourselfare you going to burybefore you realizeyou're the one left underground?
I have no answer.
Only another breath.Another morning.Another stepI don't quite know how to take.
One step closer.One step closer.
I don't know where I'm going.
I only knowI'm tired of pretendingthat getting through itmeans I'm okay.
And maybe, just maybe,the first thing I need to stop swallowingis the truth.
I'm not okay.
I haven't been okay.
And I'm tiredof making that soundlike it's nothing.
Because it's easier.
But easierdoesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
on staying
The Girl Who Cries Without a Sound
I have learned to cry quietly,to let the darkness hold my facewhen the world expects me to wakeas though nothing has changed.
There are storms beneath my skinthat no one hears arriving,thunder trapped behind my ribs,a thousand words swallowed by silence.
I wonder if anyone would noticehow tired my eyes have become,how my laughter sometimes arrivesjust to keep the questions away.
I have been the shoulder,the shelter,the one who stayswhen someone else is falling apart.
But when the night finds me trembling,where do I put the piecesI have spent so long hidingso nobody else has to see them?
I tell myself to be stronger,as if strength means never breaking,as if a heart can bleed in secretand still be asked to beat normally.
Some days, I am nothingbut a girl beneath her blankets,trying to convince herselfthat tomorrow is worth meeting.
And yet, somewhere inside me,beneath the ache and exhaustion,a small, stubborn light refusesto surrender its place to the dark.
It doesn't shine beautifully.It doesn't promise me a happy ending.Sometimes, it is only the smallest breath,the decision to stay for one more moment.
But perhaps that is enough.
Perhaps I was never meantto be unbreakable.Perhaps I am allowed to bea thousand shattered thingsand still be someone worth saving.
I am more than the love I gave,more than the goodbyes I couldn't prevent,more than the nights I begged the universeto return what I wasn't ready to lose.
I am the girl who kept feelingeven when feeling became unbearable.The girl who gave warmthwhile quietly freezing herself.
And I am learning, slowly,that my pain deserves a voice,that my tears are not a weakness,that I don't have to disappearto prove how deeply I have loved.
Let the world be loud.Let my sorrow shake the wallsof every room I have hidden in.
I will not apologizefor the weight of my heart.
One day, I hope to look in the mirrorand see more than the girl who survived.I hope to see the girl who returnedto herself, piece by piece,without having to become someone else.
Until then,if all I can do is breathethrough another quiet night,I will count that as courage.
Even when nobody hears me,even when I cannot explain the storm,even when my tears fall softerthan the world can everunderstand—
I am still here.
And perhaps, for now,that is the loudest thingabout me.
on choosing to live
The Bride Who Chose to Live
Inspired by the haunting world of Corpse Bride.
Beneath a moon that forgot to shine,I stitched my sorrow into lace,wore midnight blue instead of white,and hid my tears behind my face.
The world above kept turning on,its windows warm, its gardens bright.While I became a ghost of myself,a bride who danced alone at night.
My bones remembered every fall,my heart recalled what hurt the most.I learned to smile with hollow eyes,a living girl who felt like a ghost.
The dead would whisper, Come and rest.The shadows offered me a place.They promised I could cease to feel,that I could leave without a trace.
But something stirred beneath the dust,a little spark that would not die.A stubborn pulse, a quiet truth,a wish to see another sky.
I had mistaken pain for fate,believed my sorrow was my name.I wore my wounds like wedding ringsand thought that hurt was all I came to claim.
But I was never born to hauntthe rooms where yesterday still sleeps.I was not made to guard my griefor bury every dream I keep.
So I unpinned my veil of blue,let all the wilted ribbons fall.I faced the girl beneath the laceand saw she wasn't lost at all.
She was exhausted. She was afraid.She'd carried more than she could say.She needed someone to hold her hand—and I could start with mine today.
No prince arrived to break the spell.No perfect love unlocked the door.I chose to take one step toward life,then found the strength to take one more.
Let the moonlight touch my skin.Let morning find me where I stand.I am no ghost of what has been.I am still here. I still have plans.
And if my dress remains midnight blue,if grief still trails behind my feet,I'll wear it as a part of me,not as a shroud, but as something I survived.
I was the bride who mourned the dead,who thought her story had to end.
But underneath the veil, I founda life that hadn't started yet.
on finding the door
The Ballroom Inside My Chest
Lately, I have been feeling like a ghostin a house that still belongs to me.
The rooms are familiar,the portraits still hang crooked on the walls,and the clock continues its endless ticking—yet somehow,everything feels as though it belongsto a life I can no longer touch.
I wander through my daysin a dress of faded midnight blue,my sleeves stitched with silence,my pockets full of thingsI no longer know how to name.
There is a ballroom inside my chest.
Once, its chandeliers burned brightly.Music wandered through its corridors,and every window held a little promiseof what tomorrow might bring.
Now the candles flicker.The orchestra has forgotten its song.Dust settles upon the floorwhere my younger self once dancedwithout wondering whether she deserved the music.
Sometimes, I stand at the entranceand wait for something to happen.
A knock upon the door.A sudden warmth beneath my ribs.A reason to lift my headand look beyond the endless blue.
But nothing comes.
Only the wind,dragging its cold fingersthrough the cracks in the windows.
And I wonder—
Is this what emptiness looks likewhen it has lived inside you too long?
Not a terrible darkness,not a storm that tears the roof away,but a quiet, abandoned placewhere even sadness has grown tiredof keeping you company.
I have become familiar with the silence.
I know which floorboards creak.I know which corners collect the shadows.I know how to smile at the portraitsso nobody asks why the girl in the mirrorlooks a little less alive each day.
Yet somewhere beneath my ribs,a small blue butterfly still stirs.
Its wings are delicate,its flight uncertain,and sometimes it rests so quietlythat I mistake it for something dead.
But it moves.
And perhaps that is whyI have not locked every door.
Perhaps some part of me still wonderswhat lies beyond this house,beyond the crooked portraitsand the ballroom without music.
I want to see the world again.
Not as the girl I was before,not as some perfect bridewith an unbroken heart and spotless lace,but as the woman who can walkthrough a graveyard of old feelingswithout mistaking every tombstonefor a place she must remain.
I want to open the curtains.Let the moonlight find the dust.Let the cold air touch my facewithout believing I must become cold, too.
I want to rememberthat a quiet heart is not always a dead one,that a lonely room can be entered again,that even a forgotten ballroommight someday hold music.
For now,I will leave one candle burning.
Not because I know who will come,or because I am waiting for someoneto rescue me from this place.
But because I want to find my own waythrough the dark.
And if the girl in the mirrorstill wears her midnight-blue veil,if her eyes still carry the weightof a thousand unspoken things,I will not call her broken.
I will take her hand.
We will walk through the empty ballroomone slow step at a time,past the wilted roses,past the dust-covered mirrors,past every version of ourselveswe thought we had lost forever.
We may not dance tonight.
We may not even know the melody.
But the candle is still burning,the butterfly is still breathing,and somewhere beyond these walls,the morning is waiting.
I am not home yet.
But perhaps,for the first time in a long while,I am willing to find the door.
on what I keep
A Song for the Things Left Unsaid
There are things the night knowsthat the morning will never hear,little pieces of yesterdayI keep folded somewhere near.
I learned to smile through winter,to let the rain fall out of sight,to carry an entire oceanand still insist the shore was fine.
Somewhere along the way,I became good at being quiet.I could turn a storm into a whisperand convince the world there was no riot.
I kept the broken pieces,not because I liked the pain,but because I feared that letting gowould mean losing what remained.
And so I walked with heavy pockets,full of words I never said,while a thousand little questionsmade their home inside my head.
I wonder if the stars grow tiredof watching the same moon fade,if the sky remembers every wishthat someone was too afraid to say.
Perhaps growing up is learningthat not every wound needs a name,that some things change us quietlyand leave us different all the same.
Still, somewhere beneath the silence,a softer song survives—not loud enough to stop the thunder,but enough to prove something insidehasn't entirely gone quiet.
So if the night finds me wandering,let it think I'm chasing dreams.Some things are easier left unspokenthan explained by what they seem.
And when the morning finds me,I will gather what is mine,leave a little room for healing,and let the rest fall out of time.
No grand goodbye,no promise carved in stone—just a heart learning, little by little,how to make a homeof its own.
on what time leaves
The Marks We Cannot See
Some things disappear with time,like footprints washed away by rain,while others settle beneath the skin,too deep to ever look the same.
The seasons change, the flowers fade,the moon forgets its former light,yet certain echoes never leave,they only learn to hide from sight.
Perhaps that's how the past survives—not as a wound, nor as a scar,but as a quiet little achethat follows you from near to far.
And even when the world moves on,when old chapters close their eyes,some things remain without a name,like fading stars in distant skies.
No one can see what time has left,or count the things we keep inside.Some stories end upon the page,but leave their ink beneath the skin.
on wonder
Somewhere Beyond the Blue
I wonder what the stars would sayif they could hear the things unsaid,the little dreams we tucked away,the paths our wandering hearts once led.
Perhaps the moon knows somethingthat the daylight cannot see,why certain lights stay with uslong after they cease to be.
Somewhere beyond the midnight sky,there must be worlds we haven't known,where time moves gently, dreams don't die,and no one has to feel alone.
Until I find that distant place,I'll let the quiet hours unfold,and keep a little piece of wonderfor the things I cannot hold.
For life is wide, the sky is endless,and there are still new stars to find.Yet some small wishes travel with us,like moonlight lingering behind.
on quiet longing
The Things the Moon Never Tells
There is a certain kind of longingthat never makes a sound,it simply settles in the quietwhen no one's looking around.
Like watching windows glow at dusk,each one holding its own light,and wondering what it feels liketo belong somewhere at night.
The seasons change without asking,the old trees learn to grow anew,yet some little things remain behindlike shadows painted blue.
Perhaps the saddest thing about a wishis how gently it can stay,even when the hands that held ithave long since turned away.
So I leave mine with the evening,where the stars can keep it small,and pretend I never wantedanything at all.
Still, when the moon hangs low above meand the world turns soft and dim,I wonder if the things we never findever wonder about us, too.
on empty chairs
The Space Beside Me
Some evenings feel unfinished,like a song that fades too soon,like a chair left by the windowbeneath a pale and patient moon.
The world keeps turning gently,the hours pass like falling rain,yet certain little silencesstill feel strangely familiar again.
I wonder how a place can holdthe shape of something that's not there,how an ordinary momentcan feel heavier with empty air.
Perhaps it's just the quiet,or the way the night turns blue,how even the smallest thingscan remind us of what once felt true.
I keep moving with the seasons,letting new days come and go,but some wishes have no language,and some feelings grow in silence, slow.
If the stars could keep a secret,I'd leave one beneath their light:that sometimes, all the heart remembersis how it felt to have someone nearby.
And when morning finds me waking,I'll let the sunlight fill the room.Still, some spaces stay a little colderlong after the flowers bloom.
on becoming
She Wore the Midnight
She wore the midnight like a veil,with silver dust upon her skin,and kept a thousand silent storieswhere no one else could wander in.
The roses in her garden withered,the clocks forgot to turn,and every candle in the hallwayheld a little flame she'd learned to earn.
They said she looked like someone dreaming,a princess sleeping through the years,but no one heard the glass begin to tremblebeneath the weight of unshed tears.
She wasn't waiting for a saviour,nor a hand to pull her through.She only wished the world would noticeshe was still becoming someone new.
So beneath the crooked chandeliers,she gathered lace and broken things,and stitched herself a pair of wingsfrom all the silence suffering brings.
Perhaps she was never sleeping.Perhaps she was learning how to rise.For even flowers buried under winterremember spring beneath the ice.
on what grows unseen
The Quiet Between
There are days that pass like water,leaving nothing on the shore,just a sky that slowly changesand a silence by the door.
Beneath the ordinary hours,the tide moves where none can see,carrying little unnamed thingsout toward an endless sea.
Some thoughts become passing weather,some settle like evening rain.Some find their way into the musicand disappear before the refrain.
When dusk spills blue across the windows,the world seems softer than before.Even shadows look like somethingthat has wandered in from another shore.
And perhaps the night knows secretsthat the daylight cannot keep—small unfinished constellationsthat only stir when the world is asleep.
So let the stars remain distant,let the hours drift like stone.Not every mystery needs a witness,not every seed must yet be shown.
Some things bloom without announcement,some rivers carve their paths unseen.And somewhere beneath the stillness,something grows where nothing seems.
on quiet change
The Other Side of the Glass
A quiet figure stood in silver,beneath a sky that wasn't there.She carried fragments of old summersand dust collected from the air.
Her pockets held forgotten maps,her sleeves were stitched with fading gold.She traced a line across the surfacewhere younger constellations glowed.
Outside, the seasons kept on turning,the branches learned to bend.Some roads dissolved into the distance,some stories reached an unfamiliar end.
She waited where the light grew thinner,where yesterday met something new.The glass remained between two worlds,reflecting neither quite as true.
And when the evening lost its colour,the silver softened into grey.A little dust began to settlewhere the old reflections used to stay.
Perhaps the shape was never missing,perhaps the stars had simply moved.Perhaps some things must fade to shadowbefore their outlines can be proved.
So leave the glass untouched tonight.Let the dimming light fall through.Not every change announces itself,
not every becoming leaves a clue.
on staying lit
The Little Lantern
Winter arrived without a warning,and the garden turned to grey.Even the birds forgot their songs,and the clouds refused to move away.
A little lantern stood beside the gate,its glass all cracked and worn,with barely enough light insideto recognise another dawn.
The wind would ask it every evening,“Why are you still burning here?The road is empty, night is endless,and spring has disappeared.”
The lantern never answered.It had no grand reply.It only held its little flamebeneath the indifferent sky.
Some nights it nearly flickered out.Some nights it burned so lowthat even the stars above itcouldn't tell it glowed.
But morning came in small beginnings:a drop of rain, a softer breeze,one green leaf unfolding quietlyupon the sleeping trees.
And though the garden wasn't blooming,though winter hadn't disappeared,the lantern found the smallest comfortin the fact that it was still here.
Perhaps not every light is meantto chase away the night.Perhaps some simply stay alive
until they learn to shine more bright.
letters to myself · no. 01
Dear Me,
I know you're tired.
I know there are days when you wish you could step outside your own mind for just a little while. Days when every thought feels heavier than it should, when you look at yourself and struggle to recognize the girl you used to be.
I know how often you've tried to be strong.
You've tried to understand everyone. You've tried to be patient, to be forgiving, to find explanations for things that hurt you. You've spent so much time wondering whether you could have done something differently that sometimes you forget to ask yourself a more important question:
How am I doing?
So, for once, let me ask you.
How are you, really?
Not the version of you who says she's fine because explaining would take too much energy. Not the version who laughs to make other people comfortable. Not the version who swallows her feelings because she doesn't want to become a burden.
I mean you.
The girl who gets scared. The girl who overthinks. The girl who sometimes wants to hide beneath her blankets until the world feels less overwhelming. The girl who has so much love to give but is still learning how to give some of it to herself.
I see you.
And I don't want you to be ashamed of the person I see.
You don't have to be perfectly healed to deserve happiness. You don't have to become fearless before you can try something new. You don't have to turn every painful experience into a lesson immediately.
Sometimes, something hurts because it hurts.
You are allowed to admit that without blaming yourself for feeling it.
I hope you stop treating your sensitivity like a defect. Your heart may feel things intensely, but that doesn't make you foolish. Your fears may sometimes get the better of you, but that doesn't make you weak. You have things to learn, yes. You have patterns to unlearn and boundaries to build.
But you are not a failed version of the woman you're supposed to become.
You're still becoming her.
Please stop measuring your worth by how useful you are to other people. You are not valuable only when you're listening, helping, comforting, forgiving, or holding everything together.
You deserve rest when you have nothing to give.
You deserve kindness when you're struggling.
You deserve to take up space even when you don't have the right words.
And you deserve to have a life that is yours—not a life spent waiting until every difficult feeling disappears before you allow yourself to enjoy it.
I want you to make friends. To discover new places. To laugh until your stomach hurts. To find music that makes you feel understood and hobbies that remind you how much of the world is still waiting to be explored.
I want you to have little things to look forward to.
I want you to learn what makes you happy when nobody else is involved in the decision.
Not because you need to prove that you're independent, but because your life deserves to contain more than survival.
There will still be difficult nights. You might fall back into old thoughts. You might have days when the progress you've made seems to disappear.
Please don't use those days as evidence that you've failed.
Healing isn't a staircase you climb perfectly. Sometimes it's turning around, sitting down for a moment, and remembering that you don't have to punish yourself for being tired.
And when you make mistakes, I hope you learn to correct them without destroying yourself over them.
Take responsibility. Apologize when you need to. Change what you can.
Then let yourself continue.
You are allowed to grow beyond the versions of yourself you regret.
You are allowed to become someone you haven't met yet.
And one day, I hope you look back at this chapter without wondering why you weren't stronger. I hope you understand that you were trying, even when trying looked like nothing more than getting through another day.
If nobody tells you today, let these words be enough:
I'm proud of you for continuing to learn.
I'm proud of you for questioning the ways you've been hurting yourself.
I'm proud of you for wanting a gentler life, even when you don't yet know how to build one.
And I'm proud of you for still being here, still curious about what your future might hold.
You don't have to become a completely different person to deserve a beautiful life.
You can be this girl—imperfect, emotional, thoughtful, sometimes frightened—and still build something wonderful.
So take your time.
Drink some water. Eat when you can. Open the curtains. Let the sunlight touch your face. Make plans, even small ones. Give yourself permission to enjoy something without feeling guilty for it.
Come back to yourself in little ways.
You don't need to solve your entire life tonight.
You only need to remember that your story belongs to you.
And no matter how many chapters have hurt, you are still allowed to write a softer one.
With all the patience I should have given you sooner,
Me.