Once, I wrote for joy. For light. For love. But somewhere along the way, the words turned heavier-ink stained with ache, stories laced with the weight of what was lost. Writing became less of a choice and more of a necessity-a way to bleed quietly onto the page when the heart no longer knew how to speak out loud.

This work is shaped by silence, by the things left unsaid in the spaces between people. With every poem, essay, or late-night prose piece, they chase the ghosts of what could have been, hoping that somewhere in the wreckage, someone will read and whisper, "I felt that too."

I write not to heal, but to remember. Not to move on, but to sit a while longer with the echoes. As this pen has become a companion, one that doesn't ask for explanations-only honesty. And in that honesty, heartbreak becomes something strangely beautiful, something others can hold.