


To love is to willingly place your heart in the hands of another, knowing it may never return whole.
It is the sweet agony of giving everything, only to watch yourself unravel in the silence or absence of the one you gave it to.
Each day becomes a quiet repetition of loss—a slow, invisible death that no one sees, where the pain doesn't scream but settles deep, making even the brightest moments feel hollow.
Love, in its purest form, has the power to build—but when it wounds, it destroys with equal intensity.
Good afternoon