the version of me i can’t reach anymore

There was a time when everything felt loud.
The grief. The rage. The confusion. The ache.

I was inside it.
Inside the fight.
Inside the spiral.
Inside the question of whether I’d ever feel whole again.

But now…
something is different.

I still remember it.
But it’s quieter.
Like watching a film I know by heart — but from the outside.

I’m not in the scene anymore.
I’m the one watching it.
Holding the knowing.
Witnessing the version of me
who was still trying to hold it all together.

And it’s strange.
That something that once swallowed me whole
now barely grazes the edges of who I am.

That love.
That pain.
That story.

It still happened.
But it doesn’t own me anymore.

And somehow —
even though I’m still putting myself together,
one breath at a time —
I can finally see the distance.
And that, too, is a kind of peace.

✧ quiet prompt:

What part of your story are you finally able to witness, not relive?

🌒 next layer:

→ read: emotional disidentification and the grief of becoming → chapter: underneath