A light that learned the shape of my shadow.
I never truly chose to write. Something inside me rose first, slow and heavy, like a forgotten voice returning from years of silence and deciding my hands were the only doorway it could use. The words came on their own, soft at the beginning, then steady, then flooding, as if they already knew the path long before I ever touched the page. I followed because something inside whispered that ink might be the only way left between breaking and breathing. At first, I believed I was releasing things… emptying thoughts and letting the hurt inside me spill into a safer place. But this writing carried me deeper than I expected, into quiet corners of myself I had avoided for years. It split me open exactly where I was already fragile, as if it had always understood the shape of my wounds better than I ever had. It guided without force, moving my hands with a knowledge I had never learned and never understood. It did not ask for control, yet it took it gently. It knew the map of my sc...