Nine months

is long enough

to lose a future

you already learned to breathe in.

Long enough

to discover that love

can be real

even when it has nowhere to land.

I thought I could explain it away—

call it trauma,

call it old wounds resurfacing,

call it anything

that hurt less than the truth.

But the truth stayed.

The truth was love.

Unnegotiated.

Unreturned.

Still honest.

And when silence replaced honesty,

when my story was softened, delayed, hidden—

something in me broke deeper

than heartbreak ever could.

I learned how betrayal

doesn’t always come loud.

Sometimes it comes as protection

that protects everyone but you.

I learned how faith can crack,

how meaning can fall quiet,

how survival is not heroic—

just stubborn.

There were days

I didn’t want strength.

I wanted rest.

I wanted my pain

to be seen without translation.

Yet here I am.

Not healed.

Not whole.

But still breathing.

Still choosing truth over denial.

These nine months

were a betrayal of trust,

of love,

of my soul.

Wishing it all away

did not give me silence,

nor did it soften the experience.

I was seen as a problem

that needed fixing.

And what’s real

is that my story gets minimised

to fit everyone else’s narrative—

except mine.

But I am still here.

Still breathing.

And finally stepping into the light

so my voice can be heard.