Just a Girl (a lyrical reflection by Eve)

After reading the pieces, he asked: Who are you?

Me?, I said. I'm just a girl.

No, really. Who are you?

I shrugged. I'm nobody special. Just a girl with too much on her mind and no comfortable way to say it aloud. So she writes.

She feels too much, too deep. And for that—she suffers. Mostly in silence.

Because when words flow out of her mouth, they come fast. Too intense. Too honest. People don’t like her honesty—they feel hurt. They think she doesn’t care. But she does. She feels it too.

She says things the way she sees them. The way she wants to hear them. Fact. Not sugar. No smoke. No mirrors. That’s why she doesn’t offer illusions. So instead of hurting others with truth, she keeps them happy with silence.

So she writes.

Because silence is her first language. And writing—writing is how she speaks.

In writing, she is whole. She is clarity. She is the storm she’s learned not to name.

She writes about the ache without assigning blame, about the loss without pointing fingers, about the fear without asking anyone to fix it.

She writes for herself. For the girl inside. For all of us.

All of us who feel too much, who say it too fast, or too loud, or not at all.

All of us who want others to know but don’t know how to say the words.

So she writes.

She writes the words—for us. Because her heart and mind feel like a kettle about to burst. And writing is the release. The steam. The sanctuary.

She writes because she loves with everything she has and everything she doesn’t. And what she receives in return often doesn’t compare. It makes her feel inadequate. Like she’s not enough. Or she’s too much. So she hides it.

And she writes.

Because in writing, her honesty doesn’t bruise. It breathes. It lands softly. It makes space before asking to be understood.

She’s not special. Just a girl.

Just a girl who writes.

This reflection serves as the emotional root of why I write—what silence feels like, and how words give it breath.

Elowen stands here—mud-streaked, soft-hearted, and sovereign.
She does not speak to be understood. She writes to be witnessed.

@notesformysoulmate

This work is protected—not to gatekeep, but to honor the tenderness, the friction, and the freedom it holds.
Because when storms are named in silence, writing becomes ritual—and ritual becomes release.
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