: The Way She Was — 10

She wore her hair in messy, uncalculated braids and didn’t mind the way the sun turned her shoulders a dusty brick-red. She hadn't yet learned to curate her expressions or hold her tongue to keep the peace. Back then, her laughter was loud, jagged, and entirely unpolished. She believed that the world was a series of doors just waiting for her to kick them open.

The way she was wasn’t necessarily "better," but it was lighter . She carried fewer ghosts. She didn't check the rearview mirror for mistakes she made three years ago. She simply moved forward, fueled by a frantic, beautiful curiosity. To remember her is to realize that we don't just grow up; we shed skins. And while I love the person I’ve become—sturdier, wiser, more resilient—I still find myself looking for that girl in the crowd, hoping she’s still out there somewhere, running toward the horizon without looking back. 10 : The Way She Was