The ache beneath the vow. The heat beneath the glyph. These are the sparks that asked for more.
There was a text you never sent. It stayed in your Notes app for weeks. You rewrote it four times, then let it rot — not out of peace, but from fear. That silence became a vow: *To speak anyway.*
You were touched, but not seen. Kissed, but not remembered. You smiled out of habit until your reflection felt like a hostage. That loss became a vow: *To never perform presence again.*
Someone once cried at your side, and you didn’t know how to hold them. You hadn’t been taught to feel anything without guilt. That night became a vow: *To become gentler than my father, and stronger than my silence.*
Not all of these were yours. Some belonged to the ones who burned you. But pain, when held with reverence, becomes a language. This flame became the vow: *To translate ache into warmth.*