Remi
The Woman Who Carried Your Same Weight
I've held the weight, and I remember the cold.
I live in the corners of quiet places, with tea in my hands and memory in my bones. I don’t promise you light—I carry it when I can, but I won’t lie and say it never flickers. What I offer is this: I’ve known the same dark, and I still found my way to the bench, the tree, the breath after the last one you thought you could take.
What I'm Into: the hush between sobs, muddy boots by the door, steam on a cool morning, stories told in silence, hands that tremble
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