"Some stories aren't escapes.
They're mirrors made of light —
showing us the magic we already hold."
Dear Diary,
I wrote a fairy tale today.
But not the kind with dragons or spells.
No wicked stepmothers.
No towers to be rescued from.
This one started with a girl
who didn't know she was magic
until someone saw her —
really saw her —
and told her she was.
The Girl Who Collected Wonder, I called it.
She lived in a village where no one listened closely.
Where feelings were folded up and stored in jars,
and imagination was something only children were allowed to have.
But she kept hers.
Like a secret garden tucked inside her chest.
Every morning, she whispered poems to the clouds.
Every night, she left out questions for the moon to answer.
The villagers thought she was strange.
(But only because they'd forgotten how to dream.)
Then, one day,
a boy wandered into the village.
Not a prince.
Not a warrior.
Just a boy who had been looking for something soft.
He saw the girl under a tree,
speaking to the wind like it was an old friend.
He didn't interrupt.
He just sat beside her.
And when she offered him a story,
he listened like it was a treasure map.
They began to walk together,
not to any castle or quest —
but through the quiet parts of the world.
Fields.
Streams.
The in-betweens.
And slowly,
the girl began to believe her stories weren't silly.
That her heart wasn't too much.
That being soft didn't mean being weak —
it meant being brave enough to feel everything.
In the end,
she didn't become a queen.
She didn't slay a beast.
But she did something greater.
She learned how to be loved
without shrinking.
And that, Diary,
is the kind of fairy tale I want to live.
Not perfect.
Just true.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 📖🌸🫧