that healing isn’t loud—
it’s in the quiet moments
we stop looking back.
It shows us who stays,
who fades,
and what was never ours to hold.
It doesn’t erase the ache,
but it softens the edges—
reminding us that even
pain can become part
of the poetry.

-

that healing isn’t loud—
it’s in the quiet moments
we stop looking back.
It shows us who stays,
who fades,
and what was never ours to hold.
It doesn’t erase the ache,
but it softens the edges—
reminding us that even
pain can become part
of the poetry.

-

finding the light still on
in a room I thought I’d
never enter again.
It’s familiar warmth after
cold distance,
a breath I didn’t know
I was holding.
Not everything broken
stays shattered—
some love waits quietly,
just to be felt again.

-

when our day-to-day habits
slowly turned into a conversation—
your “good morning” felt warmer,
my silence felt understood.
It wasn’t grand,
wasn’t sudden—
just two lives softly folding into
each other,
until comfort began to sound
a lot like your name.

-

what I would choose again—
even after the heartbreak,
even after the silence.
And without a pause,
my heart whispered your name.
Because some choices
aren’t about logic or ease—
they’re about love
that felt like home,
even when it hurt.

-

I’ll hold you a little longer—
not to stop time,
but to memorize the way it feels
when everything is right,
even if just for a heartbeat.
Because some moments
aren’t meant to last—
they’re meant to be
felt completely.

-

I tease you with typos
just to make you stay
long enough to correct me.

-

I whisper your name
into tea steam and pillow fog,
as if distance melts with breath.

-

I reread our old chats,
as if punctuation might change
and say something new.

-

I wear colors you once liked,
not because I forgot myself,
but because I remember you.

-