In the ruins of my silence, I found a pulse. Faint — trembling — yet alive. The same heart that begged for company learned to echo its own name in the dark. Every ghost I once begged to stay has become the smoke that taught me to breathe. Every promise that burned away became the light that showed me what endures. I no longer chase warmth in others’ hands — my fire is slow, ancient, patient. It devours the poison without forgetting its taste. It remembers — and transforms. Addiction still whispers in the dark, but I answer with steady breath: I am the storm you once drowned me in. The world will not choose me — so I choose myself, again and again, until my shadow kneels beside me, no longer my captor, but my kin. And when dawn comes, I will not beg for light. I will be it — fragile, flickering, but mine.