I used to think she lived at the bottom of me—a small, silent thing buried under years of politeness and noise. But I was wrong.
Only the deep.
And when I finally stopped swimming against the current of myself, I understood: every layer I peeled back, every shadow I stepped into—it wasn't me finding her. deeper she was me
She was the bottom.
Only me.
The deeper I went, the less she felt like a stranger and the more she felt like a memory my bones had kept without telling me. Deeper, and her voice became my first language. Deeper, and the walls I'd built turned out to be mirrors. I used to think she lived at the