That morning, the woman did not wake up — the world woke her up.
Not the phone… but a feeling that knocked softly on her inner door.
A familiar tightness in her chest, a subtle knot in her throat.
The body was whispering what the soul already knew.
The dream from the night before still lingered behind her eyes:
There was a bird — burning.
Its wings were fire, its heart filled with light.
It was neither dying nor living,
As if caught between choosing to burn or to awaken.
In that dream, the woman saw her own heart inside that bird.
She had entrusted a part of herself to someone’s hands —
But those hands now touched another.
Betrayal felt like death, except it wasn’t an ending;
It was a slow burning from the inside.
When she awoke, the warmth was still in her chest.
“Was it real or a dream?” she whispered.
As if her subconscious had already said goodbye,
While her mind kept insisting, “Everything’s fine.”
And that morning, she somehow knew without knowing —
Something was ending, and something new was about to begin.
The Moment Of Silence
She walked into the kitchen; everything was normal.
The sound of the coffee machine, the footsteps of the children…
Yet beneath that normalcy, something was hollow —
As if life’s shell remained, but its essence had long left.
Her mind said, “Hurry, you’ll be late for work.”
But her soul was elsewhere —
A phoenix was fluttering inside her chest.
And then… the phone rang.
Time stood still, and consciousness turned to ice.
Dream and reality blurred.
The story of the bird born from fire had begun.
She learned her husband had betrayed her.
When the call ended, the world fell silent.
For a moment, everything — sound, colour, meaning — froze.
She looked out the window. The sky was gray.
And she realized that death and betrayal shared the same shade:
One takes the body, the other the soul.
Her heart was burning.
Yet within that fire, something remained —
A raw, primitive remnant of love,
A fragment that still wanted to stay pure despite all that tainted it.
Perhaps that was the first spark —
The ember within the ashes of the Phoenix.
The Birth Of Words
She took a deep breath.
Inside, a voice whispered:
“I still want to love you… But I no longer know how.”
And then, she found her heart at the tip of her pen.
Writing became breathing.
The language of pain had gone silent,
But words wanted to speak.
And the first sentence was born:
“To rise from ashes sometimes begins with a pen.”
Her fingers trembled like a feather fallen from the Phoenix’s wing as she opened her notebook.
As she began to write, a story rose from the ashes of a burned heart.
“If I don’t write, I’ll lose my mind,” she thought.
Perhaps that was the very moment a sentence was born —
One she would one day share in a therapy room.
The first step to understanding herself was this:
To touch the words.
And she wrote.
The Day I Lost Pure Love
I wanted to love you…
Not in the ordinary way — but like in those novels,
With the innocent glow of a heart untouched by pain.
Back then, I believed that pure love could heal everything —
That finding shelter in one heart could guard you from every storm.
I wanted to come closer to you, unconditionally.
Without fear, without calculation, without wondering “what if.”
I opened my heart — clean, defenceless, childlike.
But life didn’t allow it.
People came between us, words unspoken, fears unheard,
And in the end, we lost our story.
Now I wonder…
Do I miss you?
Or do I miss the version of myself who could love you purely?
Maybe the fundamental longing was for that first belief —
That trusting someone was still possible.
Now there are invisible walls between us.
Words are measured, feelings cautious.
What once came as naturally as breathing
Has turned into a posture of restraint,
A reflex to protect.
We never once blended into a crowd together.
You never held my hand and said, “This is my world.”
There isn’t even a photograph to prove we truly stood side by side.
I stayed silent; you stayed quiet.
And silence grew — until it hollowed something inside me.
Then one day I realized…
It’s not you I miss anymore,
But the pure love itself —
That fearless, unguarded way of loving inside me.
Perhaps I’ll never find it again,
For I buried that version of myself
Under the quiet weight of disappointments and adulthood.
Please, don’t touch it anymore.
Don’t touch that pure love of mine.
Let it remain — frozen in a single moment,
An echo that still reminds me of who I once was.
Because I know now:
I didn’t lose you —
I lost the ability to love purely.
And perhaps the most profound grief
Is not burying another person,
But burying the innocence within yourself.
The Silence Of The Phoenix
When the Phoenix falls silent, only the human remains upon the ashes —
But it is there that the human learns to love again.
When the writing ended, she did not close her pen.
It was as if a pulse still beat beneath the words.
She listened to the silence — and realized:
The Phoenix had not died. It was merely resting.
In the depths of her heart, a slow but steady rhythm began once more:
To live.
She closed her eyes, placed her hands over her heart, and whispered:
“Alright… now I can wake up.”
And there, among the ashes —
The Phoenix took a breath.