Eccedentesiast

She smiled, not because the world was kind, but because silence would reveal too much. Her laughter was a veil, woven delicately to hide the weight she carried. And when people said, “you’re always happy,” she only nodded, for how could they see the storms behind her crescent smile? An Eccedentesiast is not weak. She is art, a garden that blooms even in drought, a butterfly that carries broken wings with grace, a soul that bleeds quietly, yet still chooses to glow.