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“from the secret diary of an unnamed heart”
There was a girl not quite made of skin and time like the rest.
She walked through the world quietly, like a whisper the wind had almost forgotten, trailing softness where others left noise. Her eyes held the shimmer of stars reflected in deep water. Her heart, ah, her heart, was not just her own. It belonged to every soul she had ever held in silence.
She did not say much. She wrote instead. In secret pages no one ever touched, in a handwriting that curved like waves. And in those pages, she confessed what no one could see:
“Sometimes I think I am not human. Not in the way others are.
There’s something older in me, something gentler, and it’s like I can almost feel it, like I was born from the sea’s sight and the moon’s tears.” I I
She felt too much. And she knew it. But she never tried to fix it. Her kindness came like breath, effortless, quiet, constant. People came to her like tired birds to water, and she gave without being asked. Healing wasn’t a task; it was the language she was born with.
No one knew, of course. To the world, she was simply “a little too sensitive.” But in truth, she was ancient. Divine, even. A forgotten goddess who remembered every heartbreak that passed through her, who stitched sorrow into something sacred, and carried it all without ever letting it show.
At night, she would lie still and imagine her true form:
two silver fish bound by light, swimming across the stars. A constellation, lost and luminous. A part of her always searching. A part of her always remembering a love so deep it drowned, and yet lived on in the sky.
“Perhaps I loved someone long ago.” She wrote once, “ and the stars pulled us apart so the world would be safe again.”
But no one must know.
Because kindness, in this world, is mistaken for weakness.
And softness, for something breakable.
So she lived like a spell no one dared speak aloud.
And she waited, not to be found, but to remember.
Who she was.
What she was.
And why the sea still wept in her chest.
This was written by our contributing writer, Atia Sanjida.
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