"The Girl Who Stayed"

She lived in laughter once, where the walls were close

but the hearts were wide,

where her mother’s cooking was a love language,

and her father’s smile felt like home.

There was a guava tree outside—

she remembers that.

The shade, the sweetness, the stillness.

A place where time forgot to move too fast.

But life did.

The girl grew, and with her—

the world shifted.

Words once warm turned sharp,

the house got bigger,

but the warmth got smaller.

She watched love grow tired,

watched comfort twist into pressure,

watched her name become

a list of expectations she never asked for.

“Why don’t you smile more?”

“You’re too sensitive.”

“You’re dirty.”

“You’ve changed.”

Yes—she has.

She now knows the sting of silence,

the ache of shouted words,

the weight of unspoken things,

the betrayal of being misunderstood.

But she also knows—

How it feels to be chosen

by a ginger cat who curls into her light.

How it feels to cry into a pillow

and feel a silent paw nearby—

the black-white-brown one,

her shadow cat,

who never comes close but never leaves.

Who watches from the corners of the room,

a quiet witness to her pain.

She still dreams.

Of parks.

Of peace.

Of poems printed and posted in a room that feels hers.

Of being loved softly, fully, freely.

She is not weak.

She is surviving the noise.

She is holding onto the light.

She is writing her way through the storm.

She is still here.

And she is the girl who stayed.