Bella Imperia: The things I don’t say

It’s better today.

The mind is calm. The soul is quiet. The storm that raged through me has passed, at least for now. The frantic thoughts have loosened their grip, the noise has dimmed, and I can finally hear something softer than panic. Silence. Peace. Breath.

But oh, my heart aches so.

Not in the dramatic, shattered-glass kind of way people write songs about. Nothing so sharp or cinematic. This is something quieter. Duller. More familiar. It feels like a bruise you forgot you had until you press against it the wrong way. Like sleeping in an awkward position and waking with that deep soreness you cannot quite stretch away.

It is a tender kind of pain.

A heavy feeling tucked beneath the ribs. Not enough to stop the day, not enough to keep me in bed, but enough to remind me it is there. Enough to make itself known in the pauses. In the silence between tasks. In the moments when I place a hand to my chest without thinking.

And yet, I still feel alive.

That may be the strangest part of all. To ache and still keep moving. To hurt and still notice the sunlight through the window. To carry heaviness and still laugh at something small. To feel wounded and healing at the same time.

Maybe that is what recovery often looks like—not the sudden disappearance of pain, but the softening of it. The ability to breathe beside it. The ability to live while it lingers.

So yes, it’s better today.

Not perfect. Not painless. But gentler.

And sometimes, gentler is enough.

-Bella Imperia