a girl and her pen

10.02.2025

i think about you often. how small your hands felt in a world that never made space for them. how your voice curled inward, like it was afraid of its own echo. i think about the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone would ever truly see you. if you would ever feel like you belonged to yourself.

i remember the way you searched for love like a lost thing, like something you had misplaced but were sure existed somewhere, tucked away in someone else’s hands. i remember how heavy that loneliness felt, how it settled in your bones like it had always lived there.

you didn’t know then that silence could be just as sharp as words. that absence could be just as loud as presence. that love could ache, even when it was real.

you wanted so badly to be held. to be understood. to be chosen. and when you weren’t, you turned on yourself. dug into your own skin, carved yourself into something smaller, something easier to love. i wish i could say i don’t recognize that version of you anymore, but sometimes, i do.

sometimes, i still feel you in the quiet moments, in the spaces between now and then. and i don’t know if i’m writing to let you go or to hold you closer. maybe both.

maybe neither.

me.