After the attempt

I woke up with stitches where the darkness used to live, a heartbeat still fighting when I had nothing left to give. The mirror felt unfamiliar, like I was meeting someone new, someone cracked wide open but somehow still made it through. The nights were long after that, heavy with shame and fear, but healing is a quiet thing it starts when you stay here. Not every sunrise fixed me, not every scar faded away, but little by little I learned survival can still become a way to laugh without forcing it, to breathe without pain, to stand in the sunlight without waiting for rain. And now when I look backward, I don’t just see despair. I see a soul exhausted who still found the strength somewhere. So if my hands still tremble, if some wounds never fully mend, I’ll remember this: the story didn’t end. Because getting better was never becoming untouched or new it was learning that even broken hearts are still worth carrying through.