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The Woman on the Balcony

Creative 20 hrs ago
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    Linsey Living
    20 hrs ago
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    There once was a woman named Nia who lived in a small one-bedroom apartment that overlooked the noisy, unpredictable city. She didn’t have much — a tiny fridge that hummed louder than her phone notifications, a mirror that knew all her secrets, and a heart that had learned to stitch itself back together every time someone walked away.

     

    Nia had been through it all. Love that ended too soon. Men who promised her the moon and gave her shadows. Days where she laughed like a goddess and nights where she cried like a child. She kept telling herself, "I’ll be okay," even when her world was hanging on by a thread — or a broken acrylic nail.

     

    But there was something magical about her. She had this way of still getting up, still oiling her scalp, still putting on gloss even when she couldn’t afford lunch. She refused to look like what she was going through. The city had hardened her, but it hadn’t killed her softness.

     

    One day, after a long week of being ghosted by friends, ignored by lovers, and feeling invisible in a world that only clapped for success, she sat on her tiny balcony with nothing but a glass of cold tap water and the sunset.

     

    And for the first time in a long time, Nia whispered to the sky:

     

    "Maybe I’m not broken. Maybe I’m just becoming."

     

    That night, she didn’t cry.

    She lit a candle.

    She wrote down one goal: “They’ll remember me.”

    And from that moment, she began building a life so loud, even her silence would echo.

     

     

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    Moral: You’re not stuck, sis. You’re in the middle of your becoming. Keep going. 💅🏽✨

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