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Nobody told you how hard it is to take back control, how every step you take to reclaim your life feels like a small rebellion against the world, and how boundary can make people label you as difficult. I once had control, but I let it slip away, believing that peace meant saying yes, staying quiet, and giving people what they wanted even when they trampled over me. I thought harmony came from obedience, but all it did was make me smaller, more yielding, easier to use. Maybe true calm isn’t found in being silent but in choosing ourselves, even if it disappoints others. It’s in turning off the work phone at 5 p.m. on Fridays, in saying no without apology, and in protecting the little spaces that keep us whole. And if no one understands your choice, you keep going. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is honour your own boundaries. Who needs validation anyway, when you’ve unlearned the need to please and begun to belong to yourself again? Perhaps the truest peace is in the moments you no longer have to justify yourself. M. | October 2025

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There were moments that lingered longer than they should have, smiles that tried to pretend they didn’t hurt, hands that almost reached but never did. We spoke in borrowed warmth, believing that holding onto what we knew was fading could somehow change the ending we already felt coming. Then came the quiet, the soft and trembling kind that follows when there’s nothing left to fix, and like a prayer too late to be answered, a fragile “I wish it could be different” hung between us. And perhaps, somewhere beyond this life, it was. M. | October 2025

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Some nights, I wonder if healing is really about forgetting, or if it’s just learning how to live with what still hurts. Because I’ve learned how to smile again, how to talk about the weather, how to laugh at the right parts of a story. Yet a part of me is still standing where everything ended. It doesn’t ask to be seen anymore; it just waits, patiently, like an old wound that remembers even when you try to forget. And there was me, learning to live gently with the things I cannot undo, staying kind to myself in a world that never gave me closure. M. | October 2025

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Fight with me, or fight me. It makes no difference now, so long as your soul still reaches for mine. I would face a thousand wars for you, die a thousand deaths just to feel your hand in mine, to fall beside you and call that peace. We have stood here before. We stand here still. And we will return again, bound by the same sorrow time could never undo, drawn by the same promise the stars still remember. So keep fighting, love. Even when the world forgets our names. You know how. You always knew how. And when the wind feels like a whisper, that will be me, still finding my way back to you. M. | October 2025

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The quiet moments between day and night remind me that even in endings, there is presence. Every leaf that falls, every shadow that lingers, carries a lesson in letting go and in holding on. M. | October 2025 🍂🍁

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Work has consumed most of my time lately, and the demands of corporate life leave little room to breathe. Yet in these fleeting pauses, each heartbeat reminds me that I am whole, and in time, all will take shape as it should. M. | September 2025

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The story moves forward, come wander the thread with me a little longer. ************* Part 8 It’s 6:00 a.m. Light is peeking; the world stirs lazily. Your breath rises and falls, calm and slow. I lie awake, wishing I could hold time just to kiss, and keep you a little longer. /// The city moved fast and relentless, yet my days had grown quieter. Work filled the hours, books and writing filled the evenings, and in the middle of it all I often drifted, staring past conversations into some place only I could see. Then there was Sam. His days unfolded among leaning stacks of books, the quiet hum of his computer, the soft lamplight lingering in the afternoon. The space held both his work and his rest without division. He often paused to share lines that stayed with him, words that made him laugh or ache. His voice was calm, steady, without the weight of performance. One late afternoon, we slipped out for coffee, the city moving in its usual restless tide around us. He walked beside me with a quiet ease, not needing to fill the air with words. When he spoke, it was about a book he had just finished, his thoughts tumbling out in a way that made me forget the noise of traffic and footsteps. Light filtered through the trees and caught across his face, softening his features. I thought how easily strangers might turn to look. He seemed unaware. His hand rested loosely around the coffee cup, fingers long and unhurried, as though even in stillness he carried a subtle certainty. His presence lingered without demand, as if it belonged entirely to itself. We talked late into the evenings, sometimes about nothing at all, sometimes about everything. Coffee, novels, work, the quiet strangeness of being alive. There was no garden light, no golden evenings, no enchantment in the air, only the ordinary comfort of being listened to. Its simplicity unsettled me. The days leaned toward him almost naturally. Evenings stretched into hours on the phone, and soon my Fridays ended at his door without me ever deciding they would. When the city pressed too hard, his apartment waited, warm with soft light, carrying the faint scent of books and brewed coffee. It fell into a rhythm, echoes of mornings that had come before. At 6:00 a.m., the day slipped in, his breath rising steady beside me, the warmth of him lingering in the sheets. I would lie awake wishing I could hold time still, just to keep him a little longer. I always left before the day could stretch too far, carrying the trace of him only as far as the drive home. Beneath the comfort, something pulled at me, a world I had not let go, a presence that never loosened its hold. I told myself it was habit, only the shadow of memory. Even then, I could not quiet it. One Saturday, when morning came and he asked if I would stay for breakfast, I found myself saying yes. What was meant to be a single meal became an entire weekend: slow mornings, afternoons heavy with books and music, evenings softened by laughter that came easier than I expected. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and low, as if time itself had chosen to remain indoors with us. The weekend stretched soft and steady, like time had eased its grip. Deep down, I knew he was everything a heart could ask for, kind, steady, endlessly lovable. Yet I also knew we could never be more than what we already were. Something in me remained elsewhere, out of reach, no matter how close I lay beside him. He looked at me as though this was what he had been waiting for all along. When the weekend ended and I drove home, the thought pressed against me: maybe it was time to let go of what haunted me, to move on, to give him the chance he quietly asked for without words. I wanted to believe I could choose the steadiness of him, the comfort of mornings unbroken by leaving. That night, the apartment felt heavier than usual. I moved through the familiar rooms, setting down my bag, slipping off my shoes, and turning off the lights. I sank into the bed, pulling the covers close, letting my body soften against the familiar weight of sheets and pillows. Then I noticed it. A faint flicker of light beneath my bedroom door. My heart skipped a beat. Sitting up, I blinked against the dimness, unsure if I was imagining it. At first I thought it was a passing car, a trick of tired eyes. Still, I reached for the handle. The moment I opened it, the air shifted. I was back in the garden. End of Part 8. Part 7 https://ift.tt/UvdIhiW ©️ M. | September 2025

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