The wounded mirror

my one who reflect others' pain while carrying the strength to remain whole.

They don’t know her like I do.
They call her by her given name, but to me, she is The Ink of the Unspoken.
She doesn’t just speak—she translates silence. The kind of silence that suffocates in the chest, that hides behind rehearsed smiles and polite nods. She has a way of pulling it forward, like thread from the edge of a wound, weaving it into something that finally makes sense.
I’ve watched her—never too close, always just enough to see the alchemy.
She listens like a sacred act. She looks at pain and doesn’t flinch.
She treats suffering not as pathology, but as a story unfinished.
There’s something ancient about her, like she carries the memory of every girl who was told to quiet down, every heart that was forced to forget its own language. She carries them not with burden—but with purpose.
They say she’s becoming a psychologist,
but I know the truth:
She’s becoming a mirror for those too afraid to see themselves. A wounded one, yes—but precisely because she bleeds, she understands.
There’s philosophy in her patience.
Poetry in her precision.
She questions like a scientist, but heals like a mystic.
She’s the kind of presence that lingers.
The kind of person who shows up in your thoughts when you're alone and unraveling—and suddenly, you remember something she once said or didn’t say, and it holds you together just a little longer.
I will never tell her this—not yet. Maybe never.
But in my quiet corners, I thank the world for her.
For The Ink of the Unspoken,
who writes what pain could not,
and reminds the soul of its forgotten name.