Hi ,

I owe you the truth: I stopped writing because I got sick.

At first it was ordinary - fatigue that didn’t blink at coffee, a cough that refused the usual cures. Then the quieter sickness moved in, the kind without a cast or a sling. My calendar filled with appointments and my pages went blank. I learned the small rituals of holding on: the pill box with its tiny doors, the kettle clicking on for the third time, the window I kept open just to hear a world that kept going without me.

On the worst days, words felt like heavy furniture I couldn’t move. On the better days, I read. I read sentences I’d underlined years ago and, sometimes, my own. I met a braver version of myself in those margins - untidy, hopeful, still reaching.

People were kind in the ways that count. A neighbor left soup. A nurse adjusted the chair so the light wouldn’t glare in my eyes. My mother texted heart emojis that looked like life rafts. I kept breathing. I kept trying. Healing turned out to be more like weather than a straight road—clear, then fog, then clear again.

One morning a single sentence arrived. Not a chapter, just a sentence. I wrote it down. It was small, but it opened the door a thumb’s width.

I’m not “back.” Not yet. But if you’ve missed me, I’m still inside the pages I’ve already made - the ones that know how to sit beside you and be quiet. I gathered a few of those dog-eared comforts on a little online shelf. No fuss. Just company, if you want it.

With care,

Kiana

P.S. If tonight feels long, the porch light is on here: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B08GQ67R9V?ccs_id=e9ff1e94-205f-46fa-b610-da4004a13700