A Poem!
You don’t wake up one morning
and decide the walls are gone.
You don’t throw open your heart
like a window after winter.
No.
It happens in whispers.
In the way a stranger
hands you an umbrella
when it starts to rain.
In the way a dog
rests his head on your knee
like you’ve always been home.
It’s not fireworks.
It’s not a grand confession
under city lights.
It’s tea left steaming
on your desk
before you’ve even asked.
It’s silence
that doesn’t need to be filled.
It’s a hand
that finds yours
not to pull you forward,
but to say:
*I’m here.
We can stay like this.*
You don’t fall
like you did before—
fast, blind, burning.
This time,
you grow.
Slow.
Like ivy on brick.
Like dawn after the longest night.
You learn:
Love isn’t proof
that you’ll never hurt again.
Love is someone
sitting beside you
when you do.
It’s not about forgetting
the one who left.
It’s about making space
for the one who stays.
And one day,
without fanfare,
you realize:
You’ve stopped bracing
for the goodbye.
You’ve started believing
in the *good morning*.
That’s how you know.
Not with a shout.
Not with a ring.
But with a breath—
deep, quiet,
full of light—
as you hand them
the other half
of your toast,
and think,
*This.
This is how
you love again.*
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