DEMI
The house is beautifully quiet tonight. Even the wind feels hesitant, brushing softly against the curtains as though afraid to disturb the silence.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, the little leather-bound journal open on my lap. It's become a strange comfort lately, this ritual of documenting a life I no longer fully recognize.
My therapist says it'll help with memory recall, that writing things down can reconnect broken threads. But for me, it's more about control. if I can record what happens, maybe I can convince myself that I still have some say in how the pieces of my life fit together.
I tap my pen against the page and start writing as I reminisced about the book fair.
The fair was… better than I expected. Crowds of people drifting from one stall to another, the hum of chatter mixing with the scent of roasted coffee and paperbacks. I'd almost forgotten what ordinary joy looked like; people smiling, arguing over prices, clutching books like treasure.
