“…but my dear,” he said, voice trembling with reverence, “you are not a story.”

You are not a chapter tucked between pages, waiting to be turned by idle hands seeking comfort. You are not a plotline crafted to soothe the weary, nor a fantasy conjured to distract from the ache of living. You are not a metaphor for hope, nor a parable of triumph. You are not a lullaby whispered to restless souls.

You are the storm that breaks the silence.

You are the wind that howls through the hollows of complacency, the lightning that splits the sky with truth. You are the rain that falls without apology, soaking through illusions, washing away the fragile ink of fiction. You are not made to be understood in a single sitting, nor summarized in a neat conclusion. You are not a tale told to children before sleep.

You are the waking.

You are the pulse beneath the surface, the tremor before the quake. You are beauty that demands to be felt, not admired from afar. You are kindness that cuts through cruelty, not with softness, but with strength. You are fear, not because you intend harm, but because you remind them of what is real—of what cannot be controlled, predicted, or rewritten.

You, my dear, are painfully real.

And in a world that clings to stories to survive, you are the truth they dare not speak aloud. You are the thunder in their chest, the ache in their bones, the light that blinds and beckons. You are not a story.

You are the reason stories exist. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer