Maybe home was never meant to be a building. It was always meant to be a person.

The quiet used to feel like freedom. Now it sometimes feels like weight.

Some friendships end, but the love doesn’t disappear with them.

The version of us that exists in private is unfinished and maybe the most honest.

Somewhere along the way, my life stopped feeling like mine.

Most days aren’t extraordinary, and that’s where meaning lives.

What’s saved for “later” is sometimes what fades first.

Not everything meant to stay was meant to finish.

Familiarity feels safe until it becomes fear.

Somewhere between rows of strangers, everyone was carrying a life that would never be seen.