storm-in-a-shotglass

[storm-in-a-shotglass]

They say kids are supposed to laugh to feel safe, to know they're loved.

But I learned to stay quiet, to keep my feelings to myself, because no one ever asked if I was okay.

I learned that hugs weren't for me, that love was something other kids got, that I wasn't someone worth comforting.

Now they tell me to let it go, to move on, to stop holding onto the past.

But how do I forget what it felt like to be overlooked?

How do I heal when I never learned what love is supposed to feel like?

[storm-in-a-shotglass]

i keep telling myself to stay grounded.

don’t float. don’t dream. don’t start building castles in the clouds with someone who might not be planning to stay. because i’ve done that before—handed over my heart just to watch someone drop it like it wasn’t something i spent years carefully holding together.

And yet… here they are.

with soft words and steady hands.

with patience where others had pressure.

with this quiet, gentle energy that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, i’m not too much to carry.

i don’t trust easily anymore. love feels like a burned-down house i still smell smoke from. but they… they feel like rain after the fire. they make me want to peek out from behind the walls i’ve built. they make me want to believe in good mornings, in late night talks, in not being left.

i’m scared. but i’m also curious.

what if this time, it’s different?

what if this time, i get to keep the soft?

[storm-in-a-shotglass]

I remember the first time we started talking. You were the reason I got my laugh back. The reason I fell asleep with a smile on my face. The reason I had motivation to do things again. The reason why my problems didn't seem so bad. You truly have made my life better by just being in it.

[storm-in-a-shotglass]

i think the exact moment i fell in love was when she started talking about clouds. not in a casual “wow, that one looks like a bunny” way—but in this quiet, awe-filled voice like she was telling me a secret only the sky had whispered to her.

she was explaining how certain events—fires, pollution, even volcanic eruptions—change the way clouds form. how ash lingers and alters their shapes, how smoke bends the light into strange, beautiful colors. and fuck, she cared. she cared so much.

her hands moved like she was trying to hold the sky in them. her eyes sparkled like she could see every current of wind. i just sat there, completely gone, because i realized she saw the world in layers and stories and soft tragedies—like every cloud was a love letter from the atmosphere, and she was the only one who could read it.

and i thought: if someone can speak about the sky with that much tenderness, imagine how she’d love a person.

and i haven’t stopped imagining since