𝓦ritings — 𝓟ost 1 ‧₊˚. ݁₊

There are days when I become a quiet room, where every thought echoes louder than it should. I smile when I need to, laugh when everyone else does, and hide the little storms behind ordinary words. But somewhere beneath it all, there is still a small light—not bright enough to guide the way, but stubborn enough to stay. Maybe that is what hope is: not the absence of sadness, but the tiny voice that whispers, “Stay. Tomorrow might be softer.”

— Lex.