Today, I visited old posts again,
and it felt strange,
like reading the diary
of someone I used to know.
The words were mine,
the feelings too,
yet the person behind them
felt so far away.
I guess that's the truth of living.
Every day we quietly,
become someone new,
so slowly we hardly notice it,
until one day
we look back
and barely recognize ourselves.
And still,
every version was me.
The hopeful one.
The lost one.
The one who don't know how to love.
The one who love too much.
None of them disappeared.
They simply became
the person I am now.
Maybe that's comforting.
It means we are capable of change.
Capable of surviving.
Capable of becoming more
than who we once were.
But growth is never ours alone.
The people we loved are changing too.
Because while we were becoming new versions of ourselves.
They were becoming someone else too.