The Hidden Journal

It doesn’t happen all at once.
It begins in whispers —
a song I forgot I loved,
a scent that catches me off guard,
the way light lands gently on my skin.

───

At first, it scares me.
Feeling means opening the door again —
letting color flood the room I’d kept in grayscale.
It means remembering what I lost,
and realizing I still want more.

───

So I ease into it.
I let a single feeling stay a little longer this time.
I let warmth sit beside the ache
without trying to make it behave.

───

Somewhere between heartbreak and healing,
there’s this quiet re-entry into being alive.
It’s clumsy and holy.
It’s me, learning softness all over again.

───

— Desiree