In a small, forgotten corner of the world, lived a young girl named Anya.

 Anya wasn't like the other children. 

While they dreamt of becoming princesses or astronauts, Anya dreamt of music. 

But Anya didn't have a musical instrument.

 She had no teacher,

 no formal training, and 

no family support.

 Her family struggled to put food on the table;

 music lessons were a luxury they couldn't afford.

Yet, Anya's heart beat to a different rhythm. 

She found solace in the sounds of nature – the chirping of crickets, the rustling of leaves, the gentle patter of rain. 

She'd hum along, creating melodies in her head, melodies that echoed her dreams and her determination.

 She started collecting unusual objects – pebbles, seashells, bits of wood – transforming them into makeshift instruments.

 A hollowed-out coconut became her drum, twigs became her flutes, and pebbles her castanets.

Anya practiced relentlessly, often in secret, her makeshift orchestra accompanying her in the quiet hours of dawn. 

She faced mockery and discouragement,

 but her passion was a flame that couldn't be extinguished. 

She practiced with fierce determination,

 her small hands growing calloused, 

her voice growing stronger. 

Her makeshift instruments were crude, 

but her music was filled with a raw,

 unbridled passion that touched the souls of those who heard it.

One day, a renowned musician, traveling through Anya's village, stumbled upon her playing. 

He was captivated by the purity of her music, its resilience, its unyielding spirit. 

He was moved by the passion of a young girl who had overcome adversity to create something beautiful from nothing. 

He recognized the extraordinary talent hidden within Anya's simple melodies.

The musician offered Anya a scholarship to a prestigious music academy. 

It was a life-changing opportunity,

 a chance to hone her talent,

 to learn from masters, 

and to share her unique gift with the world.

 Anya's journey wasn't easy, 

but her determination, 

fueled by her love for music and 

her unwavering belief in herself,

 carried her through every challenge.

Anya’s story is a testament to the power of perseverance. 

It reminds us that our dreams are worth fighting for, 

that obstacles are merely stepping stones to success, and

 that even with limited resources, 

we can create our own symphony, 

our own unique masterpiece, 

if we dare to dream and have the courage to pursue our passions. 

Anya's unlikely symphony, 

born from adversity,

 resonated not only with the renowed musician but with everyone who had the privilege to hear her music,

 a reminder that even the smallest voice can create the most beautiful music,

 given the time and the perseverance.

By,

Shaina...

 I romanticize flowers.

Their trembling petals,

their stubborn, 

clumsy kind of serenity,

their accidental serendipity,

the way I once romanticized love,

when I still believed love could outgrow the damage.

I don’t write much these days.

I feel everything, all at once,

like waves kissing the shore soft, 

then devastating.

It’s the same with words

they rise up in me when I'm awake till morning

and sometimes when I'm walking with my headphones on,

press against my throat gentle yet brutal and then vanish as if it never rained.

Last evening, I wandered into this little crumbling shop

the kind that smells like old wood, dust, and older regrets.

I bought myself some vases.

though, not really vases

Just empty wine bottles,

bruised and beautiful,

the way lost things sometimes are.

Each one could maybe hold three, four flowers, not more than that, if given all in one they could suffocate,

if you pour enough warmth into them,

if you pretend they were made to carry something delicate,

something reckless enough to bloom.

They’re sitting on my bookshelf now, 

Where my favorite poetry books used to be,

I traded my little happiness last night,

they are a little crooked, 

a little tired yet glow gently.

Maybe that’s what we were.

A collection of cracked vessels,

barely enough to bloom,

barely enough to break,

barely enough to stay.

Still, somehow enough to survive.

I don’t know why I’m writing all this.

Maybe because it’s raining tonight,

and everything softens in the rain,

 so will my pain!?

Maybe because some part of me still thinks I’d understand love is not expectations.

Maybe because some flowers still bloom in broken bottles,

Maybe because some hands still remember how to hold.

Maybe because

I miss how love feels in hand,

quietly,

Always,

quietly.

By,

Shaina...

 Tired, 

suffocated,

 frustrated,

Wondering if this is it.

I can't keep living this life

I guess it's time to quit.

My feet are bleeding from all the walks,

My eyes are about to shut.

I cannot run anymore

I guess I'll quit, But...

But what about that poem

I still have to write?

And the unfinished apology

To my friend after our fight?

That nearby cafe 

I still planned to go,

And what about the ending of

my favourite show?

The dream of checking

The needy ones for free,

And buying my parents gifts,

With my first salary.

Will my mother cry,

Or will she be mad?

Will they miss me,

Or just say I embarrassed Dad?

If I'm gone,

Will my friends even know?

Will they shed a tear,

Or say I did it for show?

Who will tell my brothers

All the right from wrong,

That I'm proud of them,

And that they’ve always been strong?

All the trophies I have won,

Will they throw them away?

After I'm gone,

Will they still mark my birthday?

Will they be disappointed

In the way I wrote this letter?

But once I’m gone...

Will any of it matter?

I remember someone telling me,

"This is not it."

So no, I won't die soon,

But I might, bit by bit.

But,I will be alive,

To change my own fate,

To fight my own battles like a true warrior

I knew this phase of darkness will soon end,bringing me immense joy,an everlasting happiness....

A wrong decision is easy to make,just like the first mistake,we all made as a kid by wearing the left sandal to right leg...

my dear friend,

You are never alone in ur distress,your pain,your suffering....

You are enough fix yourself to make you raise like a phoenix,to build that broken heart stronger than before,to stand for yourself,....

All you need is love what you truly are and be the way you want others to treat you

The way you deserve full of love,care,and respect 

You are worthy !!

You are always your own hero!

You can always share your thoughts with me my friends!

By,

Shaina...

In the heart of a quiet South Indian neighborhood, a family’s peaceful life was full of blooming roses since their daughter was born,a daughter born after 4 generations in their family.

Kusum and her Husband Neel happiness got no bounds as, the pregnancy journey was full of thorns but finally their bundle of joy Kuhu was born making them forget everything with her innocent toothless smiles.

Kuhu was like a light of hope in their lives full of darkness,the darkness filled with taunts of this society.

when they lost all hopes of being parents,due to Kusum health issues which often depressed her being called barren, even after 11yrs of being  married to her childhood love Neel.

 Due to the job restraints,the new parents were unwillingly moved to a new place to start a new beginning with their bundle of joy.

Moving to a newplace was not that bad to kusum as she got busy with cleaning,organising their new home while enjoying every bliss of her motherhood with her infant daughter kuhu,who started crawling and bringing joy to their lives with her cute antics.

Neighbourhood was filled with busy yet loving people.

Neel with his friendly,Extrovert nature made friends easily in the neighbourhood,making it easy for his Wife Kusum to survive in new place.

One fine day,Kusum asked her Husband Neel to join her and kuhu,with the old couple from their neighbourhood, to the church near by as its an auspicipous day.

Neel was an atheist,but still relentlessly agreed to make his dear wife happy.

The sun was relentless, beating down on Kusum, her husband Neel, and their ten-month-old daughter, Kuhu.

 Their trusted ride—an old car belonging to a kind elderly couple from their neighborhood—had broken down on a lonely street. 

The heat was unbearable, and the baby’s cries grew louder.

Nearby stood a sprawling mansion—imposing, silent, and mysterious.

 With no other choice, the small family, along with the elderly couple, decided to seek help.

As they reached the mansion’s heavy doors, a middle-aged man greeted them with a tight smile. 

His wife lingered behind, her cold eyes piercing and unwelcoming.

“Please, come in,” the man said, stepping aside.

Inside, the mansion was grand but oddly quiet.

 Kusum clutched Kuhu tightly, feeling the baby’s crankiness spike. 

When the man’s wife demanded to hold Kuhu, Kusum refused, sensing something dark beneath her polite facade.

But,Kusum didnt know her motherly Instincts were right.

But the Lady's husband intervened ,asking if they need anything to drink or eat,while watching Kuhu all the time.

Before,they refused he clapped thrice and few women clad in red sarees emerged from shadows of mansion.

They Immediately brought few refreshments and stood behind the lady of the mansion with their faces emotionless,eyes looking hollow but following every moment of the guests of the mansion.

Their dark red sarees,maroon bangles and everything in the mansion made kusum feel uneasy,making her grip her crying baby hard to her chest,while moving close to her husbamd Neel.

The elderly couple noticed it and decided its better to leave,as the its getting close to sun set.

Suddenly, tension shattered the fragile calm.

The man’s smile twisted into rage. 

When the elderly couple suggested they leave, his temper exploded.

 He attacked them savagely.

 Kusum watched in horror as the elderly woman was dragged into a locked room.

The wife’s psychotic side emerged. “Kuhu is mine now,” she hissed, eyes wild.

Neel tried to shield their daughter, but the kidnappers’ strength was overwhelming. 

Panic surged through Kusum, but she refused to surrender and stepped back holding kuhu close to her.

As the captors argued over custody of Kuhu.

 Kusum’s gaze fell on a small, almost hidden door behind a heavy curtain.

Her heart raced. 

Could this be their way out?

Waiting for the captors to get distracted, Kusum gently soothed Kuhu,making her sleep in safety of her mother's warmth.

 Then, with a sudden burst of courage, she whispered to Neel and the elderly man, “Follow me, quietly.”

Step by cautious step, they edged toward the backdoor.

 The mansion’s dark corridors seemed endless, shadows dancing in the flickering candlelight.

 Each creak of the floorboards made Kusum’s breath catch.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind them. 

The psychotic wife’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. “Stop them!”

The chase was on.

Dodging through narrow hallways and climbing a hidden staircase, Kusum’s mind raced. 

She remembered the psychotic couple mentioning a secret garden behind the mansion,while arguing before.

kusum thought If they could reach it, freedom awaited.

Bursting through a side door, they tumbled into the garden—a tangled maze of overgrown hedges and thorny vines. 

The night air was cool against their flushed faces.

But safety was not guaranteed.

From the shadows emerged the group Kusum had seen earlier—women in striking red sarees, their faces twisted in cruel delight. 

They blocked the garden’s exit, their laughter cold and menacing.

Cornered, Kusum hugged Kuhu tightly. 

But then, a sudden sound—a whistle—pierced the night.

 From behind a thick bush,Neel pulled out a small flare.

 He lit it, throwing a burst of bright red light into the faces of their pursuers.

Blinded and startled, the group hesitated just long enough for Kusum to sprint past them, Neel and the elderly man close behind.

They ran through the winding streets, hearts pounding, until the distant wail of sirens announced help was near.

Safe, but forever changed, Kusum looked back one last time.

 The mansion stood dark and silent, its secrets hidden beneath the night.

But Kusum knew this was only the beginning.

The police arrived swiftly, alerted by the flare and the frantic calls Neel managed to make during their escape. 

Kusum clung to Kuhu, her tiny daughter’s soft breaths grounding her amid the chaos. 

The elderlyman was shaken but alive, his  gratitude mixed with worry for his wife.

Inspector Arjun, a calm yet sharp-eyed man, took charge.

 “You’re safe now,” he assured them.

“We’ll investigate this matter and bring whoever did this to justice.”

But Kusum’s instincts told her otherwise. 

The red-clad women, the psychotic wife in green silk, the eerie laughter—they were not just locals or random criminals. 

There was something deeper, darker at play.

Back at their home, Kusum found no comfort.

 Every creak of the door, every shadow flickering in the corner of her eye, reminded her of that night.

 Sleep was elusive, and the nightmares relentless.

A week passed.

One evening, as Kusum rocked Kuhu to sleep, her phone buzzed. 

An unknown number. 

Heart pounding, she answered.

A distorted voice whispered, “You can run, Kusum, but you can’t hide. The shadows are watching.”

The line went dead.

Determined not to be a victim, Kusum began her own investigation. 

She revisited the church they attended, hoping the elderly priest could reveal more about the mansion and its owners.

The old priest hesitated but finally shared a chilling story after Kusum's relentless efforts to save that old lady.

The mansion had belonged to a powerful family rumored to practice dark rituals, their influence hidden beneath layers of respectability.

“They say the women in red sarees are part of a secret society,” the elderly priest whispered.

 “They believe in controlling fate through sacrifice and fear.”

Kusum’s blood ran cold.

Armed with this knowledge, Kusum collaborated with Inspector Arjun.

 They planned a sting operation to expose the cult and rescue the old lady any other victims.

On the night of the operation, Kusum returned to the mansion—this time not as a victim, but as a hunter.

 Hidden cameras and backup police officers surrounded the estate.

Inside, the red-saree women began their sinister gathering. 

Kusum’s heart pounded as the same psychotic woman in green silk,made her grand entrance, eyes locking briefly with Kusum’s—a silent promise of reckoning.

With a smirk on her lips,the lady directly refused to release the elderly lady until and unless Kusum gives her daughter kuhu to her.

Kusum blood ran cold.

The thought of her daughter taken away from her made her stand like a statue ,shaken with worry.

The lady signalled her army of red women to bring the elderly lady,to make kusum frighten even more.

Watching all this from the camera fixed to the butyons of kusum dress,made Neel's blood boiled.

His hold on kuhu got tightened,making the littleone stop from chewing his tshirt.

Inspector Arjun thought this is the best time as the lady and her red silk clad women are distracted,he signalled his team to start the operation the planned ahead.

Suddenly, alarms blared.

Everyone in mansion was stopped in their tracks,noticing the change in environment.

The police stormed in.

 Chaos erupted. 

The master of the mansion,who is busy in a room chanting mantras stopped abrutly and came out with rage,as his precious and sacred pooja got disturbed.

Kusum pushed through the crowd, her focus on the locked room where the elderly woman had been held captive.

She found the door ajar, and inside, several frightened children and women huddled together. 

Tears of relief and fear mingled as Kusum embraced them.

Months later, Kusum stood outside the mansion, now a sealed crime scene. 

The cult had been dismantled, its leaders behind bars.

Kuhu laughed in her arms, a sound that filled Kusum with hope.

 Though scars remained, so did her strength.

The shadows of that night lingered, but Kusum had reclaimed her life—and her family’s future.

-------------

Kusum’s story is a haunting reminder that evil can lurk behind the most beautiful facades, and strength often rises from the darkest moments. 

In many South Indian villages and towns, the warmth of community and faith can sometimes be a veil, hiding secrets better left uncovered—yet courage and love always find a way to break through.

May Kusum’s journey inspire us to trust our instincts, protect those we love fiercely, and never lose hope, even when shadows surround us.

By,

Shaina....

 The knife twists,

a familiar sting, 

Not from a stranger,

but a friend's wing. 

Repeated blows,

a pattern of pain,

Trust shattered, 

like fragile rain.

Each promise broken, 

a whispered lie, 

Mirrored in tears,

that endlessly cry.

The heart, 

once open,

now guarded tight, 

Shielding itself from the fading light.

The bond we shared,

Now a twisted thread,

Memories haunt, 

like ghosts unsaid. 

But amidst the ruins, 

a flicker remains,

 A strength to rise, 

through the pouring rains.

For even in darkness, 

a new dawn may break, 

A chance to heal, 

for goodness' sake. 

To mend the wounds, 

to learn and grow, 

From ashes of sorrow, 

a new self to sow.

The threads of friendship, 

once vibrant and bright, 

Now lie scattered, 

a heartbreaking sight.

 Each betrayal, 

a sharp, 

piercing dart, 

Ripping through my soul,

 tearing it apart.

The laughter we shared, 

now a haunting refrain, 

Echoing through chambers of unbearable pain. 

Promises whispered,

 like vows in the breeze,

 Now just faded echoes, 

rustling through the trees.

My heart,

 once a fortress,

 now lies in despair, 

Walls crumbling, 

a ruin beyond repair. 

The wounds left behind, 

deep and so wide, 

A testament to friendship's fractured pride.

Yet amidst the wreckage, 

a flicker remains,

 A tiny ember,

 defying the rains. 

The hope of healing, 

a fragile, 

soft light,

 Guiding me forward,

 through darkest of night.

For even in sorrow, 

a strength can be found,

 A resilience that mends, 

makes whole, and unbound. 

Though scars may remain, 

a reminder of pain,

 They serve as a testament,

 that I shall rise again.

My heart's a glass full of cracks,

 Shattered by a friend, 

it would seem. 

Repeated texts,

 a cruel,

 slow burn, 

Leaving my love in utter churn.

Ghosting and lies,

 a toxic blend, 

My trust betrayed,

 it's at an end. 

Like a rollercoaster, 

up and down,

 Emotional chaos, 

all around.

I should've blocked you,

 I know it's true,

 But hope's a drug, 

I fell for you. 

Now I'm picking up the broken pieces,

 Learning self-love,

 my heart releases.

For even in darkness,

 a new dawn may break, 

A chance to heal, 

for goodness' sake. 

To mend the wounds,

 to learn and grow, 

From ashes of sorrow, 

a new self to sow.

This ain't a sob story, 

no way, 

I'm stronger now, come what may. 

Next time, I'll choose a better friend, 

This chapter closes, a new one begins! ✨

By,

Shaina...

 Hurrah!! It's my 100th post on our blog.

Ivy, a firefly unlike any other, 

possessed a light so faint it was almost invisible.

While her siblings' lights danced joyfully in the twilight meadows,

Ivy hid amongst moonflower petals, 

her luminescence a mere flicker. 

She believed her spark too small, insignificant, unworthy of attention. 

She felt like a tiny, flickering candle in a stadium of blazing spotlights.

 She felt like a meme that didn't quite catch on... 😔

The dazzling displays of the other fireflies seemed to mock her quiet glow.

One night, a wise old owl, perched high on an oak branch, noticed Ivy's hidden sorrow. 

His amber eyes pierced the petals, seeing the trembling light within.

 He hooted softly, his voice a gentle rustle in the night air.

"Little one," he called, 

his voice carried on the breeze, 

"Why do you hide your light?"

Ivy, startled, confessed her fears.

 "My light is dim," she whispered, 

"not bright enough to be seen. I'm not worthy of celebration."

The owl chuckled, a low rumble in his chest.

 "My dear," he said, 

"your light is unique.

 It's not about intensity, 

but the warmth it holds.

 Each firefly's glow is a precious jewel,

 reflecting the night's beauty. 

Some shine brilliantly, 

others softly; 

both illuminate the darkness equally."

He shared a secret: 

"The most beautiful nights aren't those with the brightest displays, 

but those where every light,

 however small, 

shines bravely. 

Your gentle glow is a beacon of peace, a quiet comfort in the vastness of night. 

Embrace your uniqueness; 

it's your special gift."

Touched by the owl's words, Ivy emerged.

 She took a deep breath and let her light shine.

 It wasn't dazzling,

 but a soft, 

Steady beacon, 

a comforting presence amidst the vibrant chaos of the other fireflies. 

Joining their dance, 

she discovered her gentle glow was cherished,

bringing a unique harmony, 

a quiet beauty the brighter lights had overlooked. 

From that night on, Ivy never hid her light again.

She learned true brilliance isn't about being brightest, 

but about shining authentically, 

embracing her unique spark.

Ivy started showing her trueself to the world!

The moral of the story is: 

Embrace your uniqueness, even if it feels different or "less than." True beauty and value lie in being authentic and celebrating your own individual spark, rather than trying to conform to others' expectations.

Sometimes,we never find such wise souls to push us and enlighten us.

Be your own motivation

Embrace yourself and enjoy every moment of this precious life!

By,

Shaina...

I am an Introvert

Embodying endless emotion, 

sensations inside.

Employing always in the disguise ,

Scrutinising constantly the soul,

Don't know why I am mistaken always?

I do secretly want to get invited,

But I always find myself frightened,

Midst of chaos, and commotion

So many people, numerous notion.

I do wonder why I am not the train which will serve at this station?

I have few friends but loneliness is my best,

I always remain,

with my books, 

phone,

notepad,

storylands,

and pen dwelling inside the nest,

In my cocoon.

I often wonder

while sipping tea

Spilling my unheard emotions

On the notepad

while the Zephyr serves my company.

I am mistaken,

rude they think,

and afraid I am!!

afraid of feeling out,

afraid of being deserted,

frightened of pain,

hanging around anger and gloom.

I am neither antisocial nor the anxious ,

but always it happens like that,

My social skills are rusty,

from the bottom to top

bullied and avoided a soul

Which has learnt to live in the dark!

I am the listener,

I am the observer,

But,

I am not the conversation starter

rude they think

and the introverted myself hide from the skin of extroverted

but there someone

I try to find

a soul of Zephyr to understand

to reflect on emotions

to read up and eavesdrop on emotions and the poems of nature,

Dig out the soul

excavate the fragile introverted heart

afraid of others emotions

delirium inside but the calm always

Introvert my heart

Afraid for the people to talk

Maybe I will hurt someone and

will not take sleep while the moon fills its crescent,

I do care what others feel

and sometimes I run from everyone's life

In my nest

Crying endlessly on my notepad

and spilling anger,

 sadness, 

in the hidden sheets.

I am not spineless,

I am just protecting myself from getting hurt again and again by the wolfes under sheep disguise around me

I am myself,

enjoying my own company just like how i want others to enjoy my company !!

By,

Shaina...

If i met my seven year old self,

I wonder what would i tell her

I wonder what would i say?

would i warn her of the future?

of the bad things yet to come,

that people will leave,

that smiles are rare,

and there's so much to grieve?

that life is uncertain,

and world is wrapped in lies,

that her 'bestie' won't stay for long

she'll leave without goodbyes.

that people will change,

you can trust no one.

Despite all the girlhood,

you might wish to be a son.

That diary will listen to you the most

than anybody else around,

There will be things left unsaid,

And even silence will make a sound.

that he wasn't a nice guy,

and you should not trust him at all,

his touch will haunt you forever,

but oh, you were so small.

that scars never heal,

and to keep the blades away,

i wonder what would i tell her

I wonder what would i say?

My seven year old self believed,

the world is a perfect place,

would she recognise herself,

when she looked into my face?

Even though I have learnt so much,

several years have passed since then,

i would give up everything i have,

to view life through her eyes again.

By,

Shaina...

 𝐵𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.

𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛,

𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡.

𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑑𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑠

𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙,

𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡,

𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦

𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑏𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑎𝑢𝑙𝑡.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒.

𝑆𝑜 𝐼 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑡—

𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑙𝑦,

𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦.

𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠,

𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑢𝑡𝑦,

𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑡.

𝐼 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟,

𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑,

𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑.

𝐼 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑢𝑝 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦

𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼’𝑚 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒,

𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑛

𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟.

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡.

𝐼𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑡.

𝐼𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑛𝑑.

𝐼𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑑.

𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑦.

𝐼 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡.

𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟—

𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠.

𝑆𝑜 𝑛𝑜, 𝐼’𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑡𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑛.

𝐼’𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟 —

𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒.

By,

Shaina...

Elara, a wisp of a girl with eyes like melting chocolate, found her world shattered when Jasper, her first love, left without a word.

 His absence was a gaping hole in her life, a silence that echoed louder than any shout.

 She spent weeks adrift in a sea of sorrow, her days a blur of tear-stained pillows and unanswered questions.

 Her friends tried to comfort her, offering platitudes and distractions, but nothing seemed to reach the deep well of despair within her.

One day, while aimlessly wandering through the park, Elara stumbled upon an old woman tending a vibrant garden.

 The woman's face was etched with wrinkles, but her eyes held a surprising sparkle.

 Intrigued, Elara sat beside her, watching as the woman gently pruned a rose bush, her movements deliberate and loving.

"He left," Elara whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.

 The old woman nodded, her gaze steady.

 "Hearts break, child. It's a part of life. But the garden must still be tended."

Elara, confused, looked at the vibrant garden, a stark contrast to the barren landscape of her emotions.

 The old woman smiled gently. 

"Your heart is like this garden, child. 

It needs tending, nurturing, and love. 

You can't just let it wither. 

You must plant new seeds, cultivate new growth, and allow yourself to bloom again."

The old woman's words sparked something within Elara. 

She started small, tending to a small patch of wildflowers near her apartment. 

She watched them grow, their resilience mirroring her own.

 Slowly, she began to nurture other aspects of her life. 

She reconnected with old friends, rediscovered her passion for painting, and started volunteering at an animal shelter.

 Each act of kindness, each stroke of paint, each interaction with a rescued animal, was a tiny seed of healing, slowly filling the emptiness within her.

It wasn't easy. 

There were days when the pain threatened to overwhelm her, days when she felt like giving up. 

But the old woman's words, and the blooming wildflowers, served as a constant reminder: that even the most broken hearts can heal, and that the journey of self-discovery is often the most rewarding journey of all. 

Elara learned that while love might end, life continues, and it's up to us to tend to our own gardens, to nurture our own hearts, and to find beauty even amidst the broken pieces.

 The greatest love, she discovered, was the love she had for herself, a love that bloomed stronger than any heartbreak.

Elara learned that true strength lies not in avoiding pain, but in facing it with courage and transforming it into something meaningful.

Her garden, 

a testament to her resilience, 

became a symbol of hope and renewal,

a reminder that even from the deepest sorrow,

beauty can bloom.

 The moral of her story?

 Heartbreak may shatter us, but it doesn't have to define us.

 We have the power to heal, to grow, and to create our own vibrant gardens, even amidst the storm.

Through self-expression and embracing your creativity, you can transform pain into something beautiful and find strength in your vulnerability.

By,

Shaina...