One day, when she meets the man of her life and he tells her he loves her…

She will not tell him she loves him back, or tell him about the nights she dreamt of him.

She will not kiss him or hug him or touch him.

Instead, she will cry: cry a lifetime’s worth of tear.

Because there are stories she will never tell; not to him, not to anyone.

About nights when she lay in bed alone, so young and so soft. About nights when she feels so unloved, so lonely, so worthless. When she has to hug herself and whispers: “I love you, I love you” to herself because no one ever tells her that.

About daylight that feels too harsh. When she feels like little dust, crushed and blown. About daylight when she needed someone to hold her hand so tight and tells her: “you’ll be okay. You’ll be okay”. But no one holds her hand so she clenches her fist tight and let her fingernails dig into her palm. It hurt. It hurt.

About evenings with judgmental stares. People pointing fingers at her, with so much hate and despise that she can’t help but hate herself a lot more and it’s harder to hug herself at night and tells herself that she is loved. And about the worthless feelings that eat her up and make her feel so weak. About feeling like a mistake (a mistake that breathes and lives).

But today, he is looking at her with so much love in his eyes, half-stricken with panic because she’s crying and she probably wants to reject him. And he always looks at her like she’s a person (a person who makes mistakes, a person who is kind, a person, just a person with feelings).

And these days, she has someone to tell her it’s going to be okay, that she is kind and her mistakes do not make her a bad person. These days, she has someone to hold her hand.

And today… today, he tells her that she is loved. She isn’t lonely.

And she thinks she is home.