the weekend edit

Some weekends stay with you without trying.

Not for their stories,

but for the way the hours loosened —

unhurried, unshaped, brushed with a quiet kind of light.

 

The mornings that drifted softly into being.

The gentle decision to do nothing yet,

to let the day find you instead.

 

A moment of tying your hair back with whatever was closest,

half-ready, half-laughing,

the soft rush of leaving the house before you remembered to hesitate.

 

Afternoons in open air —

a bench, a song you once loved,

sun warming the edges of your thoughts.

Time stretching itself out,

as if it understood what you needed.

 

Evenings that blurred in warm colours.

A cinema seat holding your quiet.

A dance floor catching your joy.

Pizza eaten in bed,

scary films paused at the same moment every time.

The kind of comfort that asks for nothing.

 

There is a version of you woven into these hours —

light, unguarded, at ease with herself.

She isn’t gone.

She is simply waiting for the small moments

you keep meaning to give her.

 

Let the weekend return to you in its gentlest form —

slow, open, and soft around the edges.

The way it once was.

The way it still can be.