I was a fogged mirror,
cracks hidden in silence—
your voice,
a drop of rain
on my tired glass.

You didn’t fix me.
You just sat beside the storm,
and called it beautiful.
I didn’t believe you…
but you stayed.

Like spring thaw,
you melted
what winter buried—
called me alive
before I could breathe.

I hated my shape.
You traced it
with kindness.
I was broken.
You whispered, "Even this is art."

And now,
if I love myself
on quiet days…
it’s because
you loved me first.