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"Sometimes, healing doesn't look like fireworks.
It looks like quiet laughter between friends
and a shared seat by the sun."
Dear Diary,
I never thought the science lab window
could feel like a safe place.
But today, it did.
It started with Jia.
Jia has always known how to find me,
even when I didn't want to be found.
She burst through the door between classes,
hair wild,
eyes full of stories.
"Tell me everything," she said.
Like I hadn't gone quiet for two weeks.
Like she wasn't mad I didn't write back.
I started to apologize,
but she waved her hand like she was clearing smoke.
"You dream too much. I get it. Just let me in next time."
And just like that —
we were okay again.
Then the girl with the bright shoes came by,
carrying a bag of fruit drops and a book of poems.
Her name is Lina.
She smiled shyly at Jia,
and I braced for that awkward moment —
the one where two parts of your life don't know how to sit together.
But Jia just scooted over,
offering her half of a chocolate bar
like they'd been friends in another life.
So the three of us sat by the lab window,
sharing candy and secrets and sun.
Lina read a poem about a girl who swallowed stars.
Jia joked that I probably had a galaxy in my stomach.
We laughed so hard we nearly fell off the bench.
And for the first time in a long time,
I didn't feel like I was performing.
I didn't have to choose between versions of myself.
The quiet dreamer,
the awkward poet,
the girl with invisible bruises
and loud thoughts.
I was just Wunor.
And they stayed.
We stayed.
Diary, maybe growing up isn't about shrinking the world to fit it all —
maybe it's about opening windows
and letting more people in.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🍫🪟🌼
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