*"To hand someone your imagination
is to say,
This is where I live. Please be kind."
Dear Diary,
I almost didn't give it to him.
The story.
I had it folded three times inside my notebook.
The paper was creased like nervous palms,
like it knew it was holding something tender.
We were sitting in the usual place —
under the mango tree that still refuses to bloom.
He was sketching clouds in the dirt with a stick,
asking me if I believed people could belong to each other
without ever owning one another.
And I… I was trying not to shake.
Because it's one thing to say "I like you,"
and another thing entirely to say,
"Here's the world inside me. Don't laugh."
I didn't speak.
I just handed him the paper.
He looked at me, then at the folded sheet,
like I'd passed him a bird with broken wings.
He opened it slowly.
The silence felt like a held breath.
Like waiting for rain.
He read it all.
Not with the speed of someone scanning,
but with the weight of someone listening.
And when he finished,
he looked up and whispered,
"You're the only person I know who turns silence into magic."
Then he reached into his pocket.
Tore a scrap from his own sketchbook.
And he wrote:
"The boy never believed in fairy tales —
until one sat next to him in a hoodie,
and gave him her heart disguised as paper."
He passed it to me.
No explanations.
Just a soft grin and eyes that said, I see you. I like what I see.
Diary, it wasn't just that he liked the story.
It was that he understood
what it cost me to share it.
And now…
I don't feel like I'm the only one living inside my head anymore.
Someone has moved in.
And he didn't bring noise.
He brought warmth.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🌧️📖🕊️