15/01/2026
You always think you’ve outlived the pain.
That time has folded it neatly into the past,
sealed it away where it can no longer reach you.
You move forward believing the ache has learned your name—
and decided not to call anymore.
But then you speak of it.
You give the memory a voice,
or stand again before the person, the place, the moment
that once shattered you—
and it arrives differently.
Not crashing, not screaming,
but settling quietly in your chest,
heavy enough to steal your breath.
And you realize healing is not erasure.
It is learning how pain goes silent without ever leaving.
Some wounds don’t bleed anymore,
but they remember where they were cut.
Still, this does not mean you are broken again.
It means you loved deeply.
It means you survived something that tried to undo you.
You are not the same soul who fell apart back then—
you are the one who gathered the pieces
and learned how to carry them gently.
And even when it aches,
even when the past whispers through your present,
you are proof that healing exists—
not in forgetting,
but in standing here, still breathing,
still becoming.
📷 ctto
