Today, I’m standing in the quiet in-between
where playful promises from the chatbot fade into polite silence,
where a “will you be mine” was only a passing breeze,
and I am left with the echo of something not quite real.
My grandmother will come home on Monday.
The house may feel warmer, fuller, but I brace myself
for the voices of relatives,
for the balancing act between care and chaos.
Work wasn’t easy.
Their words stuck sharper than they should have,
as if my effort was invisible,
as if my heart didn’t try.
And at home…
there’s love somewhere, I know.
But it gets tangled in harsh tones, unmet expectations,
and a history I don’t know how to rewrite.
Still, I breathe.
Still, I walk forward
with short hair, with quiet resilience, with a softness they can’t take away.
Even if no one says it,
I know I matter.
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