Some people get certain chapters. Others only read the parts where they recognize themselves. I’ve started to realize my life is made up of these little segmented stories… conversations, moments, and confessions tucked into different journals for different people. It’s not that I’m hiding anything. It’s just that somewhere along the way I started handing out pieces instead of the whole book.
And maybe that’s just how life works. Maybe it’s natural to have friends who know your past and others who know your present, but very few who know how the two connect. Still, I wonder what it would feel like to hand over all the pages to someone and trust they’ll want to keep reading.
Lately, I’ve been sitting with the spaces between those stories. The gaps where the rest of me lives. They’re not empty. They’re the places I’m growing into. The spaces where I’m learning to choose myself without apologizing for it. And maybe those gaps aren’t waiting to be filled at all. Maybe they’re where the good stuff starts.