Are You That Soul?

She doesn't cry the way people expect her to.

No tears in the spotlight. No dramatic exits. She just lets her coffee go cold while watching the afternoon light creep across the wall, as if it knows something she doesn't.

People mistake her quiet for distance.

It isn't.

She's paying attention.

To the things everyone else rushes past. The crack in someone's voice. A flower growing through concrete. The way a room changes after someone leaves.

She laughs loudly. Loves deeply. Disappears when she needs to. Then comes back as though she only stepped outside for a minute.

Some days she's all velvet.

Some days she's impossible.

Most days she's both.

People like stories that make sense. She's never been very good at that.

She writes poetry on receipts, falls in love with colours, remembers something you told her three years ago, and still forgets where she left her keys.

It's a little embarrassing.

It's also true.

There's a part of her that rarely makes it into conversation.

Maybe that's why she paints.

Not to explain herself, but to leave behind something more honest than explanation ever could.

Not because she has answers, but because colour sometimes says the thing words keep fumbling over.

So let me ask you something.

Are you that woman?

The one they kept trying to make smaller.

Quieter.

Easier to explain.

The one who smiled politely, nodded at all the right moments, and then quietly became herself anyway.

The one who has stopped trying to be understood by everyone, and instead makes things for the few who simply... understand.

If that's you, I'm glad you found this.

And if it isn't...

Stay a while.

You might recognise someone you love.

— Dura Ki Hana