But what about the in-betweens?

 People talk about love.

People talk about grief.
But not many talk about what comes after you’ve made it through
not in a loud, triumphant way,
but in a quiet, steady kind of becoming.

There is a version of life that waits on the other side of loss.
Not marked by constant sadness,
not brimming with happiness either,
but something quieter.
A settledness. A knowing.

You are no longer undone.
The weight is lifting.
You breathe easier now.

You return to the cafe where you once sat heartbroken
this time, just for the ice cream.
You walk by the street where you used to cry in the car
and hum a song instead.

The memories still visit,
but they don’t hold the same ache.
They feel softer. Distant. Almost warm.

You find a screenshot you missed out to delete
and instead of tears, you smile
You scroll past their name on your phone
without the urge to reach out.
You see their favorite movie playing,
and you don’t change the channel.

There are still quiet days.
Still pauses when the past brushes against the present.
But you can go to the same places without crying.
You create new memories.

You catch yourself dancing while taking a bath
You say yes to plans you would’ve avoided.
You find yourself flirting again, lightly, cautiously, but still.
The old songs still sting sometimes,
but you forget the grief by the final note.

You laugh at your own jokes.
You wear that dress you used to avoid.
You look at people in love,
and for the first time,
you don’t flinch.
You don’t ache.
You just… hope.

You’ve moved on, not by forgetting,
but by carrying it differently.
Not in your hands anymore,
but somewhere deeper, woven in, not weighing down.

You’re finding your way,
not back to who you were before,
but toward someone new.
And that’s okay

Because new pieces are coming
pieces shaped by strength, yes,
but also by softness;
by kindness, yes,
but also by boundaries and self-love.

You’re learning to treat yourself the way
you once reserved only for others
gently, patiently, with grace.

This is what comes after the storm.
Not sunlight pouring through the clouds,
but a slow clearing.

A life that asks nothing of you
except to keep living it
as you are now,
whole, not because nothing broke,
but because you gently gathered what remained
and built something honest.
Something real.

And when the sun touches your face now,
you don’t flinch.
You close your eyes.
And let it in.