Dear Journal,
I think the ache has a shape now.
Not sharp, not sudden, but something that settles in the space between noticing
and reaching.
Because the day fills anyway.
It fills with small, vivid things,
a market humming like it always has,
fruit warm in my hands,
voices passing close enough to feel like belonging.
And all day I move through it
with this quiet instinct
to turn, to say,
you wouldn’t believe this.
But there is no turning.
There is no name that rises naturally,
no number I don’t have to think twice about,
no voice waiting on the other end
of something as simple as
hey, are you busy?
And it changes the way everything lands.
The sunset still opens wide,
color spilling over itself like it cannot be contained,
clouds holding their shape just long enough
to feel intentional.
And I stand there,
heart already mid sentence,
you should see this, it’s unreal
but the sentence has nowhere to go.
It just stays.
Inside me.
The flowers along the roadside,
small, unnoticed, still leaning into light
like they trust it will be there.
I wanted to tell you
they felt like something steady,
like quiet survival.
I wanted to say
they reminded me of you.
But there is no one to call
to say things like that anymore.
And it is not the big moments that undo me,
it is this.
A candle I found that turns into soil after it burns,
something meant to end
and then begin again.
I stood there longer than I should have,
thinking how badly I wanted to share that,
not because it is extraordinary,
but because it meant something
in a way I cannot quite carry alone.
The wind came through warm,
threaded with dirt,
like the earth was close,
like everything was trying to be felt,
and I had no one to say,
do you feel that too?
That is what this is.
Not just being alone,
but having a life that keeps unfolding
in ways that ask to be spoken aloud,
and no one to speak it to.
No one to call
just to say nothing important.
No one to interrupt with small details,
no one to laugh about something that did not matter
until it did.
Just this constant collecting,
moments stacking quietly inside me,
soft, beautiful,
and heavier every day.
I do not think I am asking for much.
Just a voice
that feels natural to reach for.
Just someone
who exists on the other end of the ordinary,
who would answer,
not because it is urgent,
but because it is me.
Until then,
everything I would have said
settles here instead,
a life full of things worth sharing,
learning how to live
with no one to call.
Longing
The Sky Wouldn’t Wait
I almost stayed inside.
That’s what sits with me now, more than anything else. How easy it would have been to just watch it through the window. To notice the color, call it beautiful, and let it pass without asking anything of me.
But the sky didn’t look like something you could witness halfway.
It looked like it was breaking open.
A thin line of fire at the horizon, orange deepening into red, red slipping into purple, like something alive and leaving at the same time. And there was this pull, quiet but certain, the kind that doesn’t wait for you to feel ready.
So I went.
Not prepared, not thought out. Just… as I was. The kind of leaving where you don’t stop to fix anything. Crocs shoved on without thinking, basketball shorts that made no sense for the cold, a thin hoodie that felt like a half-promise against 22 degrees.
I felt it the second I stepped outside.
The cold didn’t ease in. It took hold. Straight to my lungs, sharp enough to steal a breath and make me question it for a second. Just a second.
Because the sky was still burning.
So I ran.
Out into the back field, where the ground never quite holds you steady. Tall grass hiding every uneven step, fallen limbs waiting where you don’t see them. My shoes slipping just enough to remind me they weren’t meant for this, my legs stinging with cold that had nowhere to hide against bare skin.
I ducked under fencing that caught at my sleeves, pushed through lilac branches that scratched like they were trying to slow me down, like everything around me was asking if I was sure.
The wind met me head-on.
Thirty miles an hour of resistance, pressing into me, turning every step into effort. It felt almost intentional, like something trying to turn me back toward warmth, toward sense, toward staying.
And I didn’t have a good reason not to.
Just a knowing.
That if I stopped, if I hesitated, I would miss it.
And that felt heavier than the cold.
So I kept going, breath uneven, hands starting to go numb, hoodie doing nothing but reminding me how unready I was for this. Everything about me mismatched to the moment, like I had stepped out of one world and into another without warning.
But maybe that’s what it is.
The best moments don’t wait for you to match them.
They just happen.
By the time I reached the fence line, I wasn’t really running anymore. Just moving forward because I had already come this far, because turning back then would have meant carrying something I didn’t want to carry.
And then I saw it.
The horizon wide and open, nothing in the way. The sun slipping under like it was being pulled down, leaving everything behind in color. Orange into red into purple, folding into each other like they knew they didn’t have long.
The fence stood in front of me, steady, unmoving. The trees reached in from the sides, bare and quiet, like they were holding the moment in place.
And the sky just gave everything.
Not carefully. Not slowly.
It burned.
And I stood there in Crocs half-soaked from the grass, legs bare to the cold, a hoodie that never stood a chance, shaking from the wind and the weight of having made it there in time.
Not comfortable. Not steady.
But there.
And something in me settled in a way I don’t know how to explain cleanly.
That some things will never meet you where you are. They won’t wait for you to be ready, or warm, or dressed for it. They will exist fully without you.
And you either go to them, or you don’t.
I stayed until it faded. Until the colors softened, until the fire cooled, until the sky folded back into something quieter, like nothing had happened at all.
And the whole walk back, colder than before, slower now, I kept thinking about how close I came to missing it.
How easily this could have been a moment I only half-saw.
I think that’s what I’m trying to fight, in my own quiet way.
The version of me that stays inside.
That chooses comfort without question.
That lets things pass because they are inconvenient.
Because tonight, it was inconvenient.
And still, it mattered.
Not because it changed anything. Not because it fixed anything.
But because I was there.
Because I chose to step out into something I wasn’t ready for
to meet something that wouldn’t wait.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
To keep going when something calls,
even if you’re underdressed,
even if you’re shaking,
even if it doesn’t make sense.
To meet the moment where it is,
not where it’s easy.
Because some things only exist out there,
past the fence line,
in the cold,
in the wind,
in the seconds before they disappear.
And I don’t want to keep missing them.
I Don’t Want To Be A Chore:
-This playlist is for the feeling of trying to be easy to love. For holding your words back, making your hurt smaller, pretending you don’t need as much as you do, just so no one feels like staying with you is work. It’s for the quiet fear that one day someone will realize loving you takes effort, and decide they’re too tired to keep trying. I don’t want to be a chore. I just want to be something someone keeps choosing without thinking about why.
•Wings by Birdy
•Porch Light by Noah Kahan
•You and Me by Cameron Whitcomb
•Crooked the Road by Mon Rovia
•Refuge by Dermot Kennedy
•Steady by Bella Kay
•Muscle Memory by Isabella Contadini
•Anyone’s Dream by bennie
•Sailor Song by Gigi Perez
•David by Lorde
•Dirty Liar by Ike Dweck
•You Can’t Follow by Alice Rose Lyn
•Youth by Daughter
•If I Get High by Nothing But Thieves
•Meet You at the Graveyard by Cleffy
•Empty (Ballad Version) by Brook Lynn
•Drown by Emilie Su
•Already Gone by Sleeping At Last
•Someone To Stay by Vancouver Sleep Clinic
•Let Me Follow by Son Lux
Things I Still Believe In
Dear Santa,
I know it has been a long time since I wrote to you, but something in me felt pulled back to this small tradition, this quiet magic. Maybe it is the season itself. Maybe it is the kind of year I have had. Maybe it is the part of me that is still trying to believe good things can find their way to me. I do not know exactly why, but I do know I wanted to write.
This year has felt heavy in ways I never expected. It held moments of beauty, too, but also a kind of tired I cannot always explain. I think you understand that sort of thing. I think you have seen many hearts trying their best to keep going, even when they feel worn thin. Mine is one of them.
I am not writing to ask for anything extravagant. I think what I want most is a little steadiness. A small piece of peace that stays long enough for me to breathe again. I want warmth that lasts even after the lights come down. I want hope that does not slip through my fingers the way it usually does.
There are a few real things too. Simple things. A winter that is not too harsh. A soft morning to rest in. A day where my body does not hurt and my chest feels light enough to carry. A moment of laughter with the people I love. A reminder that I am not as alone as the dark sometimes tells me I am.
I would also love something symbolic. A sign that the year ahead will be kinder. Something small that tells me I am still allowed to believe in goodness, even after everything. Maybe it comes in the shape of a sunset or a handful of stars. Maybe it is a quiet reassurance I do not have to fight as hard as I used to. I would be grateful for whatever form it takes.
I know many people ask you for big things, impossible things, and maybe this letter is strange. But I think the heart of Christmas has always been this gentle honesty. The kind that shows up in simple words and quiet wishes. So here is mine.
Please bring a little light to the places in me that have been dim for a while. Please bring kindness to the people who need it most. And if there is room, please bring something soft for me too. Something that reminds me I am still growing, still healing, still here.
Thank you for reading this. Thank you for listening to the small voice in me that still believes in wonder. I hope you have safe travels, clear nights, and warm cookies waiting wherever you go.
Sincerely,
Kelly
The Stars Take Note 