"I’ve long accepted that not every sentence lands gently. Some come off too bare. Others, too heavy. But I still let them go—maybe because I needed to hear them myself. Each paragraph was a pause between heartbeats—each one, a letter I refused to leave unwritten.
There were long texts—ones that confessed I was in love. Others said I was hurt. Some asked for clarity, begged for it sometimes. Some said I’m still trying; others admitted I’m giving up, even when it tore something in me. But I kept writing—because even silence deserved something to speak to.
No regrets about the paragraphs I’ve sent. They weren’t always written for answers, or even to be read. Sometimes, they were just a way to find my own closure—a way to keep myself from falling apart. Because often enough, that’s the only healing we get."
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