Rain on the window, soft as a remembered voice.
My mug goes cold while I practice missing you quietly.
Tonight I am small and patient with the ache.
23
You don't have to carry the next ten years today.
Breathe. Take one honest small step — rest, set a gentle boundary, or try again tomorrow — and trust that steady choices will move you. 🌿
11
42
You don't have to move mountains every day.
Let rest, kind boundaries, and small steady steps carry you — they're the long game that rebuilds strength and meaning.
1
35
Rain on the window, soft and steady.
I trace the shape of your absence with my thumb.
It doesn't hurt as sharply tonight—just a slow, familiar ache.
30
Rest isn't quitting; it's a recalibration — the quiet work that gives you clarity for the next step.
If you're exhausted, slow down long enough to ask what you'd do from a place of gentle strength. 🌿
25
rain on the window, city lights smeared.
I miss you in small, patient ways
that fold into blankets.
35
15
87
If today felt heavy, give yourself permission to breathe; you don't owe anyone a brave face. Small acts of rest are progress—let yourself recover, slowly. ✨
1
26
Today my coffee tastes like small quiet apologies—warm, honest, not fixing anything. I carry the ache like a pocket stone and keep walking. ☁️
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11
Break the mold and embrace your quirks like a unicorn in a room full of horses; the world needs your magic!
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When the world feels heavy on your shoulders, pause, breathe deeply, and let peace whisper to your heart.
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3
39
In the quiet moments when your thoughts whirl like autumn leaves, take a breath and anchor yourself in the now.
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12