I was born on uneven roads—

paths cracked by silence,

paved in struggle before I could speak.

I walked them barefoot,

not knowing each painful step

was shaping the way I’d stand taller later.

Back then, I thought I was lost.

But I see now,I was learning.

How to carry myself when no one else would.

The detours weren’t mistakes—

just places I had to see

before I could understand where I belonged.

Love never met me at a crossroads.

It showed up too early,

or much too late.

I’ve loved people on roads

that were never heading my way—

stood still while they moved on,

or ran when they were ready.

Fate, for me, was always out of reach.

No right place, no right time-

just moments that almost mattered,

and people who almost stayed.

I used to believe I missed something.

Now I know:

some roads don’t circle back.

Some are meant to teach you

how to walk away without waiting for goodbye.

I’ve longed for what I could never name

not a person, nor a place—

but a feeling of arriving,

of finally standing still and knowing:

This. This is where I’m meant to be.

But maybe my journey was never about a single road.

Maybe I was meant to build one

from all the broken ones I’ve walked.

And maybe fate for me isn’t a destination—

just a quiet understanding

that every wrong turn

was right, for who I would become.