And Still, You Stay

Some things only bloom in the quiet.
Like memory.
Like grief.
Like the strange, holy warmth of knowing you’re still here—
even after the leaving,
even after the ache has carved a second heartbeat
into the center of your chest.

The wind is moving now,
not rushing,
just passing gently,
as if brushing the cheek of someone it misses.
You look up.
The sky is low and warm,
honey-colored clouds hanging like lullabies that forgot the words.

Somewhere, a door closes softly.
And in its echo,
you remember all the things you almost said.

But don’t.
Not tonight.

Because there’s a kind of strength in silence.
In sitting with what you carry—
all the versions of love you gave,
the words you whispered into someone’s shoulder,
the mornings that never turned into forevers.
They mattered.

You mattered.

Even if they didn’t stay.
Even if you had to learn how to be your own light again.
Even if every sunset feels like a goodbye
you’re too tired to hold anymore.

And yet—
here you are.
Still.

Not bitter. Not cold.
Soft.
Like rain that knows it’s falling
but blesses every surface it touches anyway.
Like a candle left in a windowsill,
burning not because anyone is watching,
but because it can.

Let the dusk take your hands.
Let it tell you that the ache you feel
is not failure.
It’s proof that your heart is still honest.

You are not lost, darling.
You are just in the middle of becoming.
And this ache—this heartache that breathes with you—
isn’t the end.
It’s the room you pass through
on your way back to yourself.

So let the songs play.
Let the light dim and the stars blink their quiet assurances.
And when your chest rises again with breath,
know this:

You are still here.
And that is a kind of miracle.

by Onnaya