This story is fiction.
But the feelings? They were real.
While writing these pages, I saw myself—more than once. In the patterns, the wounds, the women who stayed too long, and the ones who left too early. In the silences. In the reaching. In the way she loved others more than she ever loved herself.
I didn't set out to write a mirror. But it became one.
And somewhere between the chapters, I began to understand myself more clearly. Why I flinch at softness. Why I confuse peace with boredom. Why I've chased love that was just another version of absence.
I used to think I had to be "healed" before I could love myself.
Now I know—I just have to be honest.
Writing this didn't fix me. But it freed me. From the shame. From the storylines I inherited but never questioned. From the pressure to be strong at the cost of being whole. If you saw yourself in these pages too. Know that you're not alone. And you're not broken. We are all still learning how to come home to ourselves. And I've decided, finally, to love myself in the way I've always wanted someone else to. Not perfectly. But patiently. With truth. With care. With both hands open.
Thank you for holding this story. And maybe, just maybe, holding yourself a little softer too.
Love,
AI