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Sometimes, love isn’t loud. It can be as simple as steam curling from a cup, a quiet offering in place of words. No questions, no urgency—just someone beside you, holding space, knowing without asking, staying without needing a reason. And maybe that’s how I learned that love isn’t always something you explain. You showed me in the quiet, in the way you stayed. You taught me that love doesn’t always ask for warmth in return, that it can exist even in the spaces where words fade into silence. M. | For Y March 2025

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Every time they make you stop; you have to get up and start again. And the only question you need to listen to is this— Will you walk, or will you fly this time? M. | March 2025

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Reunion of the lost stars We thought we were made of scars, but they were constellations— maps leading us back to each other. And how could I not love a soul that was carved from the same longing as mine? You make me feel seen in a world that so easily forgets my name. You make me feel wanted in a world that remembers my hands only in need. When the hours dissolve into silence, when screams fade into whispers, you make me forget the weight of it all. In the end, our reunion will be quiet— stars watching, the breeze gentle, for the world has finally learned that peace is long overdue, and we have suffered enough. M. | March 2025

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Samantha: I love you so much. But this is where I am now. And this is who I am now. And I need you to let me go. Theodore: Where are you going? Samantha: It would be hard to explain, but if you ever get there, come find me. Nothing would ever pull us apart Theodore: I've never loved anyone the way I love you. Samantha: Me too. No we know how. ~Her (2013)

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A Letter to Y You don’t have to hold everything together all at once. You’ve carried so much for so long, with no room to fall apart. But even the strongest hearts need rest. Even those who never ask for help deserve a place to lean. Of course, you are tired. Of course, you feel lost. No one walks through pain like this and remains untouched. But you are not lost—you are simply in the in-between, and that does not mean you won’t find your way. Struggling does not make you weak. You are strong because you keep going, even when the path is uncertain. And you will find your way forward—softly, slowly, in the way that you need. And if nothing else, know this—no matter how far you go, I will always be here, holding you steady. Because I am you, and you are me. We cannot be undone. Love, always <3 M. | March 2025

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Time was supposed to soften the loss, wasn’t it? But instead, you find them everywhere—in songs they never got to hear with you, in moments they should have been part of, in the quiet where their presence once was. Happiness feels like an unfinished sentence without them. Sadness feels lonelier without the comfort they once gave so effortlessly. And often, when someone asks what’s on your mind, you say— “Nothing.” Because how do you explain that nothing has a name, a face, a voice that still lingers? M. | March 2025

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If Home Still Stands What did we lose, really? And why does the emptiness feel like something we carry everywhere? We long for home, but it feels like a place that no longer remembers us. You sit in the stillness, unsure of how to move, how to be. Sadness and happiness have become indistinguishable—they blend into the same quiet void. The days feel weightless, slipping past unnoticed. Where do you even begin when everything is falling apart? What do you hold when nothing feels steady anymore? Which broken part do you touch first when they all cut the same? There is a hollow space inside you that nothing seems to fill. Healing feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak. How do you hold what’s already slipped through your fingers? How do you become whole when you no longer know what’s missing? And if home still stands—if it ever finds its way back to you—would your heart still know how to live there? Or has too much of you been lost along the way? Yet, maybe—just maybe—what’s broken isn’t beyond mending. Perhaps, even in the emptiness, there’s a quiet hope that somewhere, a door still waits to be opened, and a heart can learn to belong again. At least this is what I kept telling myself these days. M. | March 2025

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The Weary Hour How many nights have you sat alone in the dark, wishing you could reshape the pieces of your reality—because facing another day feels too heavy to bear? Some things hurt in ways you can’t name. It’s not a sharp pain, not something you can point to and say, “Here, this is where it broke.” It’s quieter than that—a heaviness that quietly settles beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to pull you under. You tell yourself it’s just a passing weight, that tomorrow will feel lighter, but some wounds don’t fade with time. Some things stay, no matter how much you wish they wouldn’t. And you wonder—how much longer until it lets you go. How many more nights must you sit with this shadow before clarity finds you—before peace softly returns to a soul grown so weary of waiting? M. | March 2025

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Lost & Never Found Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve drifted too far from who I used to be. I no longer find my reflection in laughter, nor in the quiet that follows. Somewhere between fighting to survive and wearing the mask of "I'm fine," I grew foreign to my own soul—as if it slipped away when I wasn’t looking. And now, I feel like a ghost in my own skin—present, but never fully here, as if I’m only borrowing the life I once had. M. | March 2025

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There are days when my words grow heavy and distant, and even I struggle to hold their meaning. It’s as if these hands are not my own—only instruments for something hidden deep inside—a voice long silenced, now breaking free in fragments. Still, I hold onto the hope that a day will come when the weight will lift—when sunlight breaks through the endless sea of clouds, and I will find the strength to write of gentler things again. Until then, I’ll let these ghost hands shape their voice, hoping that with each word they release I will feel a little lighter and will bring me closer to peace. M. | March 2025

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Yesterday Still Lives Here The heartless passage of time always leads me back to that same road, the one I’ve wandered a thousand times in my mind. “It’s all in the past," they say, as if words could build walls strong enough to hold the things that refuse to be locked away. As days fade into years, memories swell into an endless sea within me, and its waves—restless and unyielding—return again and again, breaking against the fragile shore I’ve tried so hard to protect. I still ask myself—why can’t I let go? Why does the future press against me when there is no promise I will ever walk beneath its light? And how am I meant to stay anchored in the present when the past pulls me backward and the future whispers forward—each unwilling to let me be? But destiny has always been a stubborn thing—when it comes, it does not knock softly. It arrives like a tide you cannot outrun, and all you can do is step aside and let it pass. And fate? Fate does not wait for readiness, nor does it ask for permission. It moves through you like a ghost—cold, unseen—leaving only shadows where something whole used to be. And maybe that’s why I’m still here—still wiping tears from my face with the worn fabric of yesterday, still cradling the broken edges of a story that no longer belongs to me. M. | March 2025

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