still here

I woke up and saw the salt-trails on my pillow—dried maps of a battle I fought while the rest of the world was quiet. It’s heavy, seeing that physical proof of how much I’ve been carrying, but there’s a strange, fierce relief in it, too.

I’m still here.

Even when the dark felt like it was swallowing everything, some part of me—some stubborn, quiet part—kept reaching for the next breath. I don’t have to have a grand plan or a perfect life today. I just have to honor the fact that I survived the night. These stains aren't a sign that I'm broken; they’re the marks of my will to stay. I am still a witness to the morning light, and for now, that is enough.