Notes from the Edges of Time. The Cartography of Being, #3

I wrote this book from the edges-not of time, but of myself. From the places where I broke softly, and loved loudly, and disappeared without leaving. Each page is a breath I couldn't take then. Each chapter, a version of me I buried too gracefully. I am not whole here-but I am real. This isn't a story you follow. It's one you feel. A mirror, a hymn, a scar that hums in rhyme. I didn't write to be understood.
I wrote it to remember what it feels like to be human when no one's watching