the ones who still know how to read a soul

there is a certain kind of heartbreak reserved for the ones who feel deeply in a world that has grown impatient with depth. it is not the sharp kind that tears through you—it is slower, quieter, the kind that settles beneath the ribs like a truth you wish you didn’t know. it’s the ache of being someone who speaks in honesty and softness, someone who offers their heart without disguise, someone who lays out their inner world with the hope that another soul might walk through it gently… only to watch people rush past as if tenderness is something they no longer have time to touch.

being an open book sounds beautiful until you realize how many people stopped reading long before you learned how to write your truth. they linger on your cover, making assumptions about who you must be; they skim your first page, searching for the parts that benefit them; they skip your chapters when they grow too heavy, when your vulnerability asks for presence instead of performance. and there you are—still offering, still blooming, still hoping someone might slow down long enough to hear the lines you’ve never said aloud. there is a loneliness in that kind of offering, a quiet erosion that comes from knowing your heart is visible, yet so rarely seen.

but there is also something sacred in it—something fierce and tender and wildly alive. because even when people stop reading, you keep writing. even when the world turns away, your soul continues to speak. there is resilience in your openness, a soft rebellion in your refusal to close yourself off just because others do. you were not made for surface-level connections that vanish at the first sign of depth. you were not built for the ones who only want the easy parts of you. you were crafted from stardust and storms, from softness and scar tissue, from a thousand untold poems living beneath your skin. your story is not small—it is expansive. it deserves to be held by hands that honor its weight, eyes that linger on its meaning, hearts that understand the beauty of reading a soul slowly.

and maybe that’s what hurts the most: not that people walk away, but that so few ever truly arrive. so few pause long enough to see the intricate architecture of who you are, the tender way your heart folds itself around the world, the courage it takes for you to stay open despite every reason not to. most people want to hear the highlight reel of your healing without sitting beside you in the quiet rooms where your voice trembles. they want your softness without your stories, your loyalty without your layers, your light without the places where it flickers. but you—
you were never meant for those who love in glimpses.

your real people—the ones your soul recognizes before your mind ever catches up—are the ones who will read you slowly. they will not be afraid of the weight or the wonder of you. they will trace the edges of your quiet and listen to the places where words refuse to form. they will study your pauses like poetry, your shadows like necessary constellations. they will not ask you to shrink or soften your truth to make it easier to swallow. they will allow your story to be as complex as it is, as tender as it is, as wild and unedited as it needs to be. they will understand that you are not a chapter to consume—you are a world to explore, a landscape of lessons and light, a collection of heartbeats stitched with meaning.

and when they read you—truly read you—you will feel it in your bones. it will feel like exhaling after years of holding your breath. it will feel like someone finally turned the pages with reverence instead of curiosity. it will feel like being understood without having to translate yourself into smaller pieces. and you will realize that there was never anything wrong with your openness, your honesty, your depth. the world has simply forgotten the art of lingering, the beauty of paying attention, the miracle of listening with more than just your ears.

but you…
you remember.
you always have.
and that remembrance is its own kind of magic. a quiet, steady glow in a world that dims itself too often.

keep your heart open, even when it feels risky.
keep your story alive, even when others aren’t ready for it.
your people—the ones who read with their whole soul—will find you.
and when they do, not a single page of you will feel wasted.

with ink & bloom, 🌻