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I hope you chew your food slowly because you are learning how to savour the taste again, not because your eyes and your chest are still heavy with tears. I hope you grow your hair again because you once loved it long, or keep it short simply because it feels like you, not because some distant part of you is still hurting in ways you do not speak of. I hope you enjoy your midnight drives because you love the silence of the road, not because you need somewhere to scream, where no one could hear you, without worried faces finding you. I hope you stay a little longer in the shower, soft with yourself, not sitting on the floor and letting the water fall just to drown your tears, as if they could take the pains off you. And I hope, in the quiet way healing comes, with no one noticing and nothing certain, you begin again, slowly, tenderly, even if your hands are still trembling, even if your heart does not quite believe it yet, even if you have to learn to live with yourself all over again. M. | I hope you stay April 2026

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I spent nights turning over meanings, wondering if a word existed to describe you and me. But every word I reached for felt either too small or far too grand, and we were always somewhere in between. Perhaps I will spend the rest of my life searching for the right way to define us, only to come up short every time. But you? You were never hard to define. You were always just one word, one soft, aching syllable. Love. And maybe that is the beauty of it, how something as fleeting as us can still linger in the heart like a favourite song long after it ends. I might never fully fathom what we were, but I know how it feels, like sunlight through a window on a late afternoon. Brief. Golden. A little sad. And still worth everything. M. | cosmos April 2026

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Each April, I meet myself among the fragments I thought I had buried. Then there is him. He asks for nothing and does not try to fix me. He keeps his hands open, steady and unafraid, as though loving me has nothing to do with mending and everything to do with staying. His gentleness is warm, almost unbearable, for I had sworn to keep my distance. I wonder if he knows what it means to love something broken, how the past lingers, teaching me to hesitate even when something good stands before me. But he does not turn away. He remains calm as April light, patience as something that needs no proof. And yet, April still feels the same. It has not forgotten, quietly resenting what was lost. I lie here, waiting for the pain to ease, unsure if my hands know how to hold what does not hurt. But he stays, and somewhere between fear and longing, I begin to wonder if hope might remain here too, fragile, uncertain, yet quietly choosing to remain. M. | Me, April & its broken things April 2026

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Love is restless, unsettled by uncertainty, often fractured by the weight of the dead past, and in a world like this, it can end before it ever begins. It should have been simple. That is what I keep telling myself. Love is patient, isn’t it? Love trusts. It waits, it stays, it believes. It is meant to feel steady, something that does not slip through your hands, something that feels like a place to rest. But no one tells you that love is also afraid. Afraid of timing, of being too much or not enough, of the silent distance between two broken people who are still learning to heal. Still, something in me wonders if love could really disappear, or only waits somewhere beyond reach, persistent in ways I have yet to understand. And perhaps the right person was never meant to complete me, only to challenge me to become whole on my own. M. | of songs & home April 2026

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"If it hurts, it’s okay to be upset. Do what you need to do, take your time. But tell me, tell me exactly when it hurts, what it is that hurts you. I will be here. Always." He said it so simply, as if it were nothing, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be upset, to feel, to admit where it hurts. No one had ever spoken to me that way before. No one had ever asked me to name my pain instead of hiding or enduring it. I think that was the moment something in me shifted. Not all at once, not enough to break down the walls I had built so carefully, but enough to let something unfamiliar slip through. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Something that felt a lot like the beginning of falling, not because the walls came down, but because for the first time I realized someone was willing to stand outside them and wait. I told myself it was nothing. That it would pass. That whatever had moved in me would settle back into place if I just left it alone. But even then, somewhere deep inside me, I knew this was the kind of feeling that would linger long after I had convinced myself it meant nothing. And the idea of me hurting him in the end terrifies me in ways I can’t name. M. | walls & clouds April 2026

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What we probably need right now is the courage to bear the weight life lays upon us. Yet our longing to be loved, our need to be seen and chosen, nudges us to reshape ourselves, softening corners, smoothing edges, into something we think is easier to hold. Without realizing, we carve away at who we are. We hide truths, offer only what the world will accept, and move carefully, deliberately, as though being fully ourselves might cost the approval we seek. Perhaps this is why sadness lingers, and happiness feels so brief. The pain does not come only from what the world has done to us, but from the fragments we ourselves have carved away, in trying to fit into a shape that was never ours. As April arrives softly, its gentle insistence in the air, humming like a quiet promise, and buds trembling under pale sunlight, I hope we find the courage to look back. To see how much of ourselves we gave away and, slowly, quietly, gather those pieces again. To learn at last what it truly means to belong to ourselves first. M. | April & quiet hope April 2026

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Today feels quieter than it should be, like the world forgot to finish a sentence, and left me here waiting for the rest of it. I move through the hours as if they are made of glass, fragile and sharp-edged, careful not to feel too much, careful not to break what has barely begun. You, who wishes to learn me slowly, to read me through the folds of my battered pages, showing me that I am still worthy of being fought for, even after all the ways I have become misshapen. Yet I cannot stop thinking about how life always seems to take something away whenever it grants a gift. The thought presses against me, jagged and unrelenting, leaving my breath uneven. For misery is not something that can be carved out cleanly from the soul. It seeps and spreads, taking the shape of the heart, settling into every crevice as if it has always belonged there. And it scares me to think this might just be another long, painful goodbye, that I’ll be carrying the same weight all over again. Still, even where the past holds me, I find a way to breathe. Perhaps it is through you, though the faith to believe it still feels fragile, like fireflies hovering between hope and the darkness of doubt, ready to dissolve the moment I reach for it. M. | you & fireflies March 2026

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