But in the morning, when the tears have dried into salt trails on my cheeks—be there. Still warm. Still here. Still whole.
You don’t need fireworks. A good song. A warm blanket. A text from a friend who doesn’t need you to be okay. These are not distractions. These are anchors. A letter to your own heart Querido coração, Pode Chorar Coracao Mas Fique Inteiro
Not perfect. Not untouched. Not polished and pretty and past it. But in the morning, when the tears have
Crying is not a collapse. It is a release valve for a soul that has been holding its breath for too long. Every tear is a sentence your mouth couldn’t form. Every sob is a story finally being told to the only one who needs to hear it: you. But in the morning
