She was a dreamer,
the kind who lingered
when others rushed;
saw possibility in ordinary moments,
beauty where others passed it by.

She shared it carefully,
wanting him to see what she saw,
to see her.

His words weren’t loud.

Not meant to destroy.

But they cut her down.

Once.
Then again.
And again.

Slowly, dreaming felt unfamiliar.
Like wearing a name
that no longer fit.
Like looking in the mirror
and not recognizing the reflection.

She wondered when hope learned
how to break so quietly,
as she swept pieces of herself
off the floor.

She still sees beautiful things.
She still harbors small dreams.
But she keeps that part of herself
carefully locked away.