Life has been moving fast, almost too fast to notice where one day ends and another begins. Constant motion. Constant noise. Constant “what’s next?”

You came like a whisper, soft-footed and trembling, a small life, a fragile warmth the world didn’t know how to protect. You weren’t meant to stay, not in the way I needed, not in the way my heart had already made room for you. Only two months, and still… you stitched yourself into my days like thread through skin—quiet, permanent, aching when pulled away.

There’s something powerful about consistency, but it’s not the kind of power people usually talk about.