I’ve finished my first book, the one I’m finally willing to let the world read. I’ve written many before, but fear always stopped me. There’s a strange kind of nakedness that comes with being read, not the kind that bares skin, but the kind that exposes the quiet corners of your mind, the ones you’ve kept dim and untouched.

When someone reads what I’ve written, it feels as if they’re peeling away the layers I’ve built to appear composed, unbothered, whole. They don’t just see the words, they see me. The parts I tried to bury beneath metaphors, the ache I disguised as rhythm, the longing tucked between punctuation. Every sentence feels like a small betrayal, whispering secrets I swore I’d never tell.

And yet, there’s something sacred in that exposure, that moment when someone doesn’t just read your work, but recognizes themselves in it. It’s terrifying to be seen that way, but maybe that’s what writing truly is: the quiet courage to stand unguarded, hoping someone out there will understand what you meant before you even said it.

This book isn’t something you finish in one sitting. It’s meant to be felt slowly, in the quiet between your own thoughts. It asks to be lingered on, piece by piece, like tracing the edges of a scar. Of mine. Of yours. Of the ones we somehow share.

These pages aren’t built for speed; they’re meant for returning to, for revisiting when the noise outside fades and you’re left with only yourself. And maybe with the version of me who wrote these words, trying to make sense of the same ache. Every line carries a pulse of something once felt, once survived.

So if you read it, don’t rush. Let it rest on your skin for a while. Let it find the place inside you that still remembers what it means to be both wounded and healing at the same time.