There’s a room in me I don’t speak about—
Not because it’s forbidden,
But because it has no name I’m willing to give out loud.
Everything outside it is in order.
Built with care,
With years that mean something,
With a life that fits the man I chose to become.
But this room—
It wasn’t built.
It appeared.
A quiet shift in the walls,
A window where there wasn’t one,
Letting in a kind of light
That feels unfamiliar and stays longer than it should.
I visit it sometimes—
Not deliberately, not bravely either.
Just enough to notice
How different everything feels inside.
And then I leave.
Because not every space
Is meant to be lived in.
Some exist just to remind you
That you’re capable
Of more than 1 version of yourself.
There’s no story here.
No action.
No line crossed.
Just a knowing—
That even in a life you wouldn’t trade,
There can be moments you don’t fully understand.
So I close the door
Without slamming it,
Without denying it exists.
And I carry on—
Exactly as I should.
As if that room isn’t quietly waiting where it always was.
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