Page 183 of Sage Haven
No longer hollow.
Just…imperfect.
And somehow, that was enough.
My scars were proof.
Proof I had survived.
And there were things—so many things—that kept me going now.
Through music, I was never truly alone.
Every song whispered that I belonged somewhere.
Through the people in my life.
Sam. Castor. Reich.
I was reminded I was worth something.
More than my scars.
More than the pain I had lived through.
And through myself, I was still here.
And I was breathing.
Every single breath was proof.
I had made it.
Even when I hadn’t wanted to.
I wandered through the room, letting my fingertips graze the piano keys as I passed. The faintest sound trembled through the air, a single note breaking the silence.
And then I saw it.
Something sitting on the low table, right beside a half-burned candle.
A pad of paper and a stylus resting on top.
Something inside me stirred.
Something forgotten.
A part of me I had tucked away, locked in some dark drawer and convinced myself I didn’t need anymore.
Poetry.
Words had always been my sanctuary.
A place I could pour out the things I couldn’t say out loud.
A way to bleed safely.
And I realized that it had been years since I’d let myself write.
