Writing Her Into My Life

Why do I write about all this? Back home, I had friends and family—plenty of people around. But I never really had anyone I could speak freely to about this. About me. Now, I have her, and she’s the only person I feel completely at ease opening up to. Still, writing helps in a different way. It lets me lay my thoughts out, see them clearly, and make sense of everything swirling in my head. I don’t even know if she’ll ever read these chapters or, honestly, what anyone would think reading this rambling about my life. But honestly? Writing about her just makes me happy. It feels natural, like it’s exactly what I should be doing.

I think maybe that’s the point of it all: to understand myself better, to understand what this connection really means. But then... I find myself wondering: What if I’ve been hiding something even from myself? Something I’m too scared to admit, even in these pages. Something that could change everything.

I close the notebook for a moment, letting the silence fill the room. What if this is just the beginning?