The years didn't heal her.
They just numbed the pain.
She lived each day like a silent routine.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Return to a place that had walls—but not warmth.
Eat just enough to keep her heart beating.
Sleep, if she could.
No one called her.
No one waited.
No one asked how her day went.
It was as if she existed in the world… but not in it.
She smiled at strangers when needed.
Answered politely.
Worked quietly.
But inside, she was… empty.
Like a candle burning in a sealed jar—light still flickering, but slowly dying.
There were nights—dark ones—where the silence screamed too loudly.
Where the weight on her chest felt unbearable.
She'd sit at the edge of her bed, staring into nothing, whispering,
"Maybe I should just…"
But she never did.
Something inside her refused to give in.
Maybe it was that tiny, stubborn piece of her heart that still remembered love.
Maybe it was her mother's voice in dreams, telling her to hold on.
Maybe… she still believed.
Maybe things could be alright.
Maybe they'd forgive her one day.
Maybe someone would hold her hand again and call her by her name—not "curse."
Maybe she could laugh again, cry with someone, talk for hours.
Maybe she could still be…
a daughter.
A friend.
Someone.
So she lived. Not fully.
But she lived.
Because hope—no matter how faint—was the only thing they couldn't take from her.