In the Quiet Between Who I Was and Who I Am
There are days I wake up
and forget where my story left off.
The pages are torn,
the ink is blurred,
but the ache remains familiar.
Sometimes I catch myself
halfway through a memory
I don’t recall beginning—
that feels like mine but isn’t.
A laugh echoes down the hall,
and I swear I know the sound
but not the moment.
I hold my breath and wait
for the pieces to fall into place,
for my mind to stop flickering
like a broken film reel.
But it doesn’t.
It never quite settles.
People think strength looks loud—
a steady voice,
a smile,
a story that makes sense.
Mine is quieter.
It’s found in the pauses,
in the way I keep showing up
to a life that sometimes feels borrowed.
I am a collection of unfinished songs
humming beneath my skin.
Some verses belong to the girl I was,
others to the one still finding her way home.
And through it all—
the confusion,
the blank spaces,
the soft unraveling of thought—
there is love.
A love so deep,
it ties me to this world
even when my mind drifts far from it.
If I ever disappear inside myself again,
I hope someone reminds me
that I’ve always come back before—
and I will again.
Because even when I feel lost,
some part of me
still believes in finding the light.
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