"I am weary—bone-deep and silent—the kind of tired that sleep can’t seem to touch. My body wages quiet wars, hormonal storms I did not ask for, shifting the light in my days. Still, I cling to the fragile thread of hope—that even in this haze, I’ll find the strength to keep dreaming, to let words bloom through the cracks, and to write my way toward the light. Survival, after all, is its own kind of story."
