“ Just like Rome wasn’t built in a day, healing—and letting go—don’t happen overnight.
Be patient with yourself. ”
****
“ Healing is a slow,
gradual process.. ”
I typed the words, paused, then deleted them.
The process had been the same all day: start, stop, erase. Frustration simmered just below the surface, a quiet yet persistent pressure. Writing, once my escape, now felt like an uphill battle.
My conversation with Timothy earlier had been unexpectedly therapeutic. He had a calmness about him, a steady presence that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t in a long time. And yet, for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate, I hadn’t asked for his number.
I’d agreed to be his friend, but could I truly follow through?
The idea of being friends with a guy again terrified me. The memories, the pain—they lingered like shadows, whispering caution into my every move.
“Trauma,” Bernie had called it during one of our late-night talks.
“Instead of risking history repeating itself, you choose to avoid it altogether,” she had said, her tone firm yet understanding. Her words had stuck with me, playing on a loop in my mind.
Maybe she was right. Or maybe I just didn’t know how to trust anymore.
I typed again:
“Healing takes time...”
But the words felt dull, uninspired. I stared at the screen, willing the words to transform, to spark, to come alive.
Nothing.
As a poet, every word I write must carry meaning, beauty, rhythm. Anything less feels like betrayal—to myself and to my craft.
“Just bleed, Cecile. Let your pen take over and lead you where it may,” Anna’s advice resurfaced, soft but insistent, like a gentle push from the back of my mind.
I sighed, letting my fingers hover over the keyboard before finally giving in.
And then, like water breaking through a dam, the words began to flow.
---
Healing
A journey not measured in years,
But in strokes of color,
In pages of words,
Some raw, some refined.
Healing,
A voyage into the unknown,
Landing in a place both foreign
And strangely familiar.
Healing,
A dance between reality
And the shadows it casts.
Healing,
A path through the furnace’s flames,
Only to emerge in the cold,
Where snow blankets the valleys.
Healing,
A journey marked by scars,
Tears, and aching hearts.
Healing,
A test of vulnerability,
Patience, and perseverance.
Healing,
A brush with death,
Returning to the fragile beauty of life.
Healing,
A process of breaking,
Shattering, and being reshaped
Into something divine.
Healing,
A struggle,
A triumph,
A transformation for the Master’s hands.
---
I leaned back, letting the words settle. They shimmered on the screen, raw and unfiltered. For the first time all day, my mind felt lighter.
“Did I really write this?” I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.
The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone wiser, someone stronger.
“You’re writing again, Cecile?” Bernie’s voice broke the silence, pulling me back to reality. I turned to find her standing by the door, her head tilted in that curious way of hers.
“Yeah,” I said softly, not trusting myself to say more.
She crossed the room, her steps slow and deliberate, and peered at my laptop screen. Her eyes moved over the words, her expression shifting from curiosity to something softer, something warmer.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice low but full of conviction.
Her words hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. I knew my writing was good—it always had been—but hearing it from her made it feel real, tangible.
“Thanks,” I murmured, a small smile tugging at my lips.
---
“So, how was your date with Timothy?”
It was hours later, and Bernie’s question broke the comfortable silence of the night. We were both sprawled on our beds, the soft glow of my bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room.
“More like a therapy session,” I replied, swirling the remnants of milk in my glass. “But it was… nice.”
She laughed softly, the sound light and familiar. “Therapy, huh? Did you at least get his number?”
I shook my head. “No. I didn’t think to ask.”
“Cecile…” Her tone was a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”
“Maybe,” I admitted, setting the glass down. “But I’m not sure I could handle being friends with him anyway.”
She moved closer, her legs tucked beneath her as she settled beside me. “Do you like him?”
“As a person, yes. But… not in that way.” My voice was quiet, almost hesitant. Timothy was kind and easy to talk to, but he wasn’t Joel.
Joel.
The name lingered in the air, unspoken yet ever-present. Bernie didn’t push further; she knew better than anyone how deeply the past still affected me.
“We’ll be fine, Cecile,” she said instead, her voice soft and sure. She wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a warm embrace.
“Yeah,” I whispered, letting the comfort of her presence wash over me.
---
The next morning, I woke to a flood of notifications.
“Your words are stunning, Cecile!”
“You describe healing so beautifully!”
“I’m sobbing; this is so relatable.”
Each comment brought a smile to my face, but one in particular made my heart stop.
“Your words are beautiful, Cecile. They embody you and your journey in a way that’s inspiringly profound.”
Joel.
My breath caught as I reread his name. It had been years since I’d last seen him, but my heart had never truly let him go.
Joel.
My muse.
My heartbreak.
My poetry’s heartbeat.
“Why now?” I whispered, my voice trembling. Why reach out when I was finally beginning to move on?
The tears blurred my vision as I stared at the screen, his words burning themselves into my memory.
---
A/N: Writing this chapter was a rollercoaster of emotions! I hope it resonated with you and gave you as much catharsis as it gave me.