Today, I came across some words that brought me back to a season I thought I had already left behind.
For a moment, it felt like opening a door to a room I hadn’t visited in years.
I expected regret.
But it wasn’t regret that I found.
It was gratitude.
And, strangely enough, sadness.
Would you be angry if I kept rereading our conversations over and over again?
Would you be upset if I replayed all the songs you sang to me?
Would you mind if I kept revisiting the good days, the difficult ones, and every ordinary moment that somehow became extraordinary because you were there?
I know I shouldn't.
But what you left behind are the only pieces of you I still have. They're the only memories I can still hold on to.
Sometimes they keep me going. Other times they quietly drive me crazy, pretending that one day I'll wake up and be okay.
It’s the middle of the week, and I found myself at the library today. While reading, I came across a paragraph that immediately caught my attention.
Love is enough when you realize that everything else is an extension of it. Everything you seek—trust, respect, compassion, and understanding—is love in another form.
Trust is love.
Respect is love.
Communication is love.
Boundaries are love.
She has a name, but it carries a history she never wanted to own.
Most people see the letters on a page and think they know who she is, but they don’t see the silent battles or the early trauma woven between the lines of her identity.
She carries a name she deeply dislikes.
Writing it fully or hearing it spoken aloud fills her with an instinctual discomfort, sending a chill straight to her core.
It is a name she avoids discussing entirely.
She was full of whys and what-ifs, wondering what her name would sound like if her parents had been the ones to give her a name.