The Threshold

The rain is writing lullabies on my rooftop, but sleep has refused to hold me. I lie awake in the hush between hours, where silence feels like company, and the clock whispers: 3:57 a.m. I am in the final stretch of girlhood, the last ache of being called teen, before the world begins naming me “woman,” even when I still feel like a song unfinished, unfolding. This phase has been a storm love and distance, rooms emptied of laughter, letters written in ink and tears, prayers whispered in secret. And yet, I am still here, soft, unbroken, becoming. What waits ahead feels like dawn on the horizon, not to erase my girlhood, but to carry her with me, to remind me that every version of me still belongs, still matters. So let the rain keep singing. Let the roof echo its rhythm. This sleepless night is not loneliness it is a threshold, a gentle rehearsal for the day I step into the space between teenager and grown, with memory in my hands and hope gleaming in my chest.