literature prints the unsaid into existence. it’s the expression of a stranger’s heart, capturing what we feel but cannot name. your love, unwritten, waits in pages yet to be turned.

you speak of me like water speaks to skin~ slow, sure, and everywhere at once. but truthfully, it’s you who stills the wind inside my chest. there’s laughter in your silence that i’ve learned to hear, a calm that walks ahead of you before you’ve even spoken. and...

follow your heart ive seen them get misguided