The pen trembled before it touched the page,
and when it did, the words did not obey,
they spilled like blood disguised as ink,
wild, unpolished, untamed.
She wrote of the shadows that stalked her steps,
the kind of fear that clings like a second skin,
yet in the same breath, she wrote of him,
a man carved of storms and silence,
a shield wrapped in fury,
a lighthouse no ocean could drown.
He did not ask for gratitude,
nor drape himself in glory,
but his presence,
steady, wordless, and fierce
was the anchor she did not know she craved.
And so under the hush of moonlight,
her heart confessed what her lips could not:
that strength sometimes wears the face of quiet,
that love can live in the spaces between words,
and that even the most broken soul
can learn to breathe again
when someone chooses to stay.