They say
a butterfly ***** its wings
in a quiet corner of the world.
and halfway across it,
a storm begins.

But no one tells you
how often
you are the butterfly.

The smile you gave
a stranger
on a day they thought of leaving.
The message you didn’t send.
The one you did.
The fight you started.
The hug you almost didn’t give.

How many lives have you altered
without ever knowing?
How many moments have you shaped
by simply existing,
in the right or wrong place,
at the quietest time?

We chase purpose
like it’s some grand, loud thing,
a legacy,
a title,
a monument with our name on it.

But maybe
you already changed the world
when you held the door open
for someone
who swore no one saw them.
When you stayed.
Or when you left.

What a strange kind of power
to ruin or redeem
with things we barely remember doing.

So move gently,
and with meaning.
Not out of fear,
but reverence.
You never know
who’s standing in the storm
your wings created.

Eyes.
they don’t just look,
they speak.
Not in words,
but in storms,
in softness,
in silence that says too much.

You can lie with your mouth,
but your eyes.
they confess.
Every fear,
every ache you’ve buried
behind a smile
lives there.

They hold childhood,
heartbreak,
hope you swore was gone.
They carry the weight
of sleepless nights
and things you couldn’t say
when it mattered most.

You learn to read them.
not the color,
but the story.
Some are locked windows.
Some, open wounds.
Some shimmer with something
you almost recognize—
maybe love,
maybe loneliness.

And sometimes,
you meet a pair
that feels like home.
Not because they’re perfect,
but because they see you
without asking you
to perform.

Eyes.
they don’t need permission
to feel.
And when you meet the right ones,
you don’t need to speak at all.

They burn
millions of miles away.
ancient fires
pinned to velvet black,
soft and distant
yet somehow
deeply ours.

We look up
as if they’re listening,
as if they know our names.
Maybe they do.
Maybe they don’t.
But something about their stillness
makes us speak anyway.

They were there
when we first whispered love,
when we cried into the night,
when we asked the sky
if we’d ever feel whole again.

And they blinked,
silent,
enduring,
not answering,
but not turning away either.

We make wishes
on collapsing light,
hoping the fall
means something.
Maybe it does.
Maybe it’s just our way
of believing
in something beautiful
despite the dark.

Because the stars,
they don’t fix us.
They remind us
we’re small
and that being small
doesn’t mean being unseen.

The soul
is not skin,
not bone,
not something you can point to
or name.

It’s the ache behind the smile,
the tremble before truth,
the way your chest tightens
when a song knows you
better than you know yourself.

It’s memory,
tied in threads of scent and sound.
It’s grief that lingers
in a room long emptied,
and love
you still feel
for someone long gone.

It carries every version
of who you’ve been.
the child who dreamed,
the teen who feared,
the adult still learning
what it means to be whole.

The soul bruises quietly.
It celebrates in silence.
It’s heavy with things
no one else sees,
but it still shines
in your laugh,
in your quiet kindness,
in the way you keep going.

And maybe that’s the soul’s secret:
it can break
and still glow
like something holy
trying
to make this life
mean something.

I see you between bells, in the rush of bodies and the echo of lockers slamming shut.
You don’t know me,
Not really,
But I know the way your smile breaks sideways,
How your laugh drifts down the hall like a song I don’t know the lyrics to,
But hum anyway.

Two weeks left.
Fourteen days
to maybe say something,
Or nothing at all.

Maybe I’ll keep pretending I’m not looking
When you pass,
Or maybe I’ll finally meet your eyes before the hallway goes silent.

Summer break is almost there.
I fear you’ll change school,
Or stay.
Maybe by then you’ll already have a girlfriend.

And I’ll wonder
What might’ve happened
If I just
Said
Hi.

Depression doesn’t disappear,
it doesn’t pack up and leave.
It waits,
sometimes heavy,
sometimes light,
like a shadow folding in on itself.

Some days, it’s loud,
an echo in every breath,
a weight that drags you under.
Other days, it’s a whisper,
a quiet ache beneath the noise.

It doesn’t vanish,
it just learns to share space,
grows smaller,
so you can breathe,
so you can stand,
so you can hope.

Healing isn’t a clean break.
it’s living
with the quiet parts,
letting them fade
until they no longer own you.

But it never really disappears,
it just gets easier living with it.

They say time heals.
but some things don’t fade.
Not really.

Days pass,
weeks blur into months,
years stretch on,
and yet,
it sneaks back in.

A sudden thought,
a whisper in the quiet,
a shadow in the corner of a smile.

I try to move,
to let go,
to breathe without it clutching my chest.
but it won’t leave.

It lingers...
a ghost,
a weight,
a question without an answer.

No matter how far I run,
or how much I build new walls.
it’s still here.

Waiting.

Moving on isn’t forgetting.
It’s learning how to live
with what stays.