The Hidden Journal

There’s a world inside me that doesn’t speak in words.
It moves slower — like water under ice,
like breath before the exhale.

───

On the surface, I look calm.
But underneath, there’s movement.
Old memories drift up like soft ghosts,
brushed by the current of something new.

───

I’ve learned not to rush the rising.
Every feeling has its own language,
and some are still learning how to form sentences again.

───

Healing isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself or make grand entrances.
It hums quietly,
in the way I reach for music again,
in the way I open the window just to feel the air touch my face.

───

Beneath the surface, I’m learning that nothing is lost —
just waiting to be remembered.

───

— Desiree