It was the first day of spring. The kind of morning that poets romanticize — where petals drift down like blessings, and sunlight wraps around your skin like a gentle promise. But inside me? Winter. The kind of winter that doesn’t freeze your skin — but your voice, your joy, your very soul. I sat on the old white stone bench behind the library — my secret place. A place where no one looked, and I didn’t have to pretend. The cherry blossoms had started blooming above it, but I couldn’t lift my head to notice.
7Day of Spring - Part 1
It was the first day of spring.The kind of morning that poets romanticize —where petals drift down like blessings,and wraps around your skin like a gentle promise.But inside me?Winter.The kind of winter that doesn’t freeze your skin —but your voice, your joy, your very soul.I sat on the old white stone bench behind the library —my secret place.A place where no one looked,and I didn’t have to pretend.The cherry blossoms had started blooming above it,but I couldn’t lift my head to notice.My hands gripped my sleeves.Not from the cold.But from the ache of holding too much for too long.There’s ...Read More