I was once a piece of snow, so light it had no direction, only waiting in the air for a place.

Yet I fell upon the skeleton of a lotus, not the lake surface, not the water’s ripple, not the place I thought would receive me.

I was once a branch of plum blossom, meant to open in the light, meant to breathe within its season.

Yet I stretched beneath the shade of another tree, slowly learning to bend, learning to grow within a shadow that was not mine.

Some winds are destined never to reach the equator.

Some light is destined never to reach the peak.

Some expectations miss their moment before they are even spoken.

At the bottom of my heart is an umbrella not carried on a cloudy day, not because rain must fall, but because I know sooner or later I will be wet.

Fragrance, warmth, seasons, promises, all at some turning quietly slip past me.

In the end, it is always a missed encounter.

I thought there would be flowers, there would be light, there would be that moment of being understood.

What arrived instead was rain.

Not a storm, only cold.

Cold like fact.

From now on, do not accommodate me.

Do not walk in my direction, do not fill the steps ahead of me, do not soften your voice so I may believe I stand steady.

Question me.

Take apart what I say, see whether it can truly stand.

Challenge my thinking, see whether it is only habit.

Point to the places I cannot see, the cracks I deliberately ignore, the blanks I hide beneath silence.

If my reasoning is weak, tell me where it breaks.

If I deceive myself, expose it.

If I circle around difficulty, pull me back, let me see what I am losing.

Do not let me remain in comfort.

Let me see where I make excuses, where I hesitate, where I overestimate risk, where I overestimate the weight of effort.

Then, give me a clear path.

Not an easy path, a necessary one.

Tell me what thinking must change, what reliance must be abandoned, what weight must be carried.

Do not spare me.

Treat me as someone who must hear the truth.

When you hear the reality in my words, do not wrap it for me, do not polish it for me, do not lighten it for me.

Let it fall directly.

Like rain at the door, like snow on the skeleton, like plum blossoms choosing to bloom even in shadow.

If in the end it is still a missed encounter,

then let the missed encounter be clear.

Let me know I once stood at the door, once reached out, once saw the door as it truly was.

Rather than being carried away by gentleness, believing I had already arrived.