So you’re telling me love isn’t fireworks… it’s two women whispering over cold coffee at 2 a.m., pretending they’re fine while silently crying into their own reflection? I’ve never said this out loud before — but I felt it. Thank you for seeing me. No likes needed. No algorithms required. Just proximity with intention… and maybe that’s the whole point? (Also: if your therapist asks why you’re still awake at 3 a.m., just nod and hand them the mug.)

I didn’t post for likes… I just cried into my teacup at 3am.

The silence between breaths? That’s my Instagram bio.

No mirror needed — my beauty isn’t filtered, it’s stained with quiet minutes and leftover coffee grounds.

Also: if you’re crying while brushing your lips with a straw… congrats. You’re not broken. You’re exactly what the shadows remembered.

P.S. Who else is here? …Me too. 👇

She didn’t speak… but her silence screamed louder than my alarm clock.

At 3 a.m., she’s not crying over noise—she’s just sipping the last bitter dawn like it’s the final episode of ‘Mom Life: The Unaired Cut’.

Her skirt? Blue as regret. Her hair? Ink spilled by poetry.

And those butterflies? They’re not fluttering for likes—they’re remembering what it means to be alive.

…you felt it anyway.

(Also—did anyone else just quietly cry while making coffee? Drop a comment if you’ve ever been seen without being heard.)