My dears,
There was a time when words flowed like rivers, when stories were the only light that warmed my nights. Writing was not just a habit it was the place where I felt alive, where my heart could breathe.You stood with me through every draft, every shakier sentence, every small victory. Your kindness and faith in my stories have been a lifeline.But lately, the ink has grown heavy. I have tried to bring myself back to the page, yet every step feels like walking through silence. The fire that once burned so brightly has turned to embers, and what once carried me is now drowning me. I’ve wrestled with this for a long time, and with a heavy heart I’ve decided to step away from here.
This isn’t because I don’t care. On the contrary: I care so much that I don’t want to keep giving you something that feels forced and hollow.
The stories will stay behind as echoes, even as I step away from them.