It feels like stepping into an old, familiar room,
but the furniture has been moved,
the paint has changed,
the windows now face a different sun.

You wear the same clothes,
but they hang differently on your frame,
a little looser here, tighter there,
fitting memories more than flesh.

Conversations start as cautious dances,
steps rehearsed in the mirror,
each word a careful gamble,
hoping for laughter, fearing silence.

Ghosts of the past linger at the table,
invisible, yet their presence palpable,
their whispers echo in the pauses,
in the spaces where new connections might grow.

There are moments of clarity,
where the fog lifts,
and you see the person,
as a potential for a true future.

Hope becomes a fragile thing,
delicate as a newborn’s breath,
nurtured with every shared story,
every genuine smile.

You learn to navigate the labyrinth of vulnerability,
one tentative step at a time,
trusting that somewhere, somehow,
the journey will lead to a place
where hearts are no longer burdened
by the weight of what once was,
but are lightened by the promise
of what could be.