She walks. Not quickly, not with purpose—just forward, because going back no longer feels like an option. The road is long, unmarked, and unforgiving in its stillness. There are no signs, no hints of where it might lead. Only the rhythm of her own footsteps and the echo of questions that never get answered.
Once, she believed in things like silver linings and divine plans. Once, she spoke of rainbows after hurricanes, recited hope like scripture. It used to sound so real in her mouth, so true in her bones.
But now? Now it’s quieter inside. The fire hasn’t gone out, but it doesn’t burn quite like it used to. The light is there—dim, flickering—but she shields it with both hands. There’s something fragile about it now, like a secret too delicate to speak aloud.
She doesn’t complain. She just adjusts the way she carries things. Shifts the invisible weight across her shoulders like second nature. It’s easier that way—to say nothing, to move gently, to keep the storm inside from spilling out.
There are good days. Days when the sky is kind, when the air feels soft. On those days, she remembers what it felt like to hope without hesitation. But the road still stretches ahead, long and uncertain, and she still walks it with the same question buried in her chest:
“Will this ever lead somewhere? Will I?”
Still, she moves. Not because she’s sure of the answer—
but because standing still feels heavier than moving forward.
