If I ever had a time machine—
would I stop everything that happened to me?
All the things I can't say out loud,
the ones that make my eyes sting,
the nights that swallowed me.
The weight of pain I've carried
sits in my chest like cold stones.
It bends me. It slows my breath.
I hate myself for the choices
that led me straight into it all—
for the moments I trusted the wrong hands,
for the times I let silence decide.
But if you ask me,
would I stop it all?
No.
"Let it happen to her."
"Let her cry—let her break."
"And then stand stronger than before."
Because the truth is cruel and simple:
the girl who trusted was naive—
a floor beneath other people's feet,
a surface they used without seeing.
If I had a time machine,
I would not go back to save her.
I would only bring her a lantern—
a small light to hold while she finds her feet again.