Sometimes, I think the quietest hearts hold the loudest stories. Today, I found an old notebook from my first year in this city—pages filled with shaky handwriting, half-finished poems, and so many question marks scribbled in the margins like desperate little anchors. It’s strange how time softens the edges of loneliness, how the girl who wrote those words still lives inside me, but softer now, quieter. Maybe growth isn’t about becoming someone new, but learning to hold your own trembling self with gentleness. P.S. The cherry blossoms by the library are starting to fall—if you see me standing very still beneath them, I’m probably trying to memorize the way the petals sound when they let go. 🌸