Myth of Healing

It does not open with love,

nor with the ache of a broken heart.

It begins where everything ends—

when hope runs out of language,

when pain grows tired of asking,

when silence becomes familiar.

This is not the art of moving on.

It is the discipline of staying —

with memories that slip in like breath, unannounced.

with emotions that return the way tides do—

faithful to no one, inevitable to all.

with the self you misplaced while loving without armor.

It is for those who no longer pursue love,

yet carry its gravity through quiet nights.

Who do not miss a person,

but miss the version of themselves that once felt limitless, alive.

This is no longer healing.

It is honesty.

Living alongside what never closed,

learning to make space for the wound.

Life doesn’t wait for our wounds to heal. It keeps moving, indifferent, mechanical while we are still bleeding inside.