The morning cold seeped through the cracks of the window as steam rose from the coffee cup on the table. It was Saturday, my day off, but I couldn't stop replaying Clara's words from the night before:
"You can't carry a love that has nowhere to live."
The night before, Clara and I had walked through the park, under the dim glow of the streetlights. Dry leaves crunched beneath our feet as we talked about everything and nothing. But at some point, while we were sitting on a bench, she looked at me directly, as if she could see something inside me that I couldn't hide.
"There's something you haven't let go of, isn't there?" she asked calmly.
I tried to deflect the conversation, but her voice was firm yet gentle at the same time.
"You can't carry a love that has nowhere to live," she said. Her tone wasn't accusatory, but instead filled with a quiet certainty, as if offering me a truth I wasn't ready to accept.
That phrase, in particular, kept echoing in my mind.
I realized that, although I had closed the journal and decided to move forward, part of me was still clinging to the what could have been. It was like a crack in a wall: small at first, but over time it expanded, threatening to bring down everything I had built.
------------------------------
That afternoon, Clara invited me to an art gallery.
"It's an exhibition about imperfections," she said with a smile, holding up a brochure with images of ceramics and broken objects.
The concept intrigued me, though I didn't expect the visit to become a transformative experience. The pieces on display featured broken objects repaired using kintsugi, a Japanese technique where gold is used to fill the cracks.
"Did you know this technique doesn't aim to hide the breaks? On the contrary, it celebrates them as part of the object's story," Clara explained as we admired a reconstructed vase.
I stared at the golden lines snaking across the surface of the vase. Each crack told a story, and together they created something that was, in some way, more beautiful than the original.
"Do you think that applies to people?" I asked, more to myself than to her.
"Definitely. Scars don't make us less; they make us unique."
She said it with a certainty that surprised me. Clara was right, but accepting that truth wasn't so simple.
We continued walking through the gallery. We stopped in front of a porcelain bowl, its repaired cracks gleaming under the spotlights. They looked like tiny golden rivers running across its surface, like a map delicately traced by hand. I thought about my own scars—the ones I had spent so much time trying to hide, as if pretending they didn't exist could make them disappear.
But this art seemed to say the opposite: the cracks weren't something to be ashamed of. They were proof of survival, of resilience. Still, knowing that didn't make it any easier to embrace my own fractures.
------------------------------
That night, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, I came to a realization: I had been trying to repair my cracks as if they had never existed, attempting to return to a version of myself that was no longer possible. Perhaps it was time to accept that I would never be the same person I was before. And that was okay.
However, the process of acceptance wasn't linear. There were days when I felt like I was making progress and others when I felt like I was slipping backward. The next morning, I woke up drenched in sweat after a strange dream. Astrid had appeared, but not as I remembered her. In the dream, she smiled at me, but her eyes were empty, hollow, as if there was nothing left inside her.
I got out of bed with a heaviness in my chest and searched for something to distract me. Without thinking much about it, I opened the shelf where I had stored the journal. Not to read it, but to hold it in my hands, as if it could help me process what I was feeling.
The smooth leather cover felt cool beneath my fingers, and for a moment, I considered opening it. But instead, I placed it back on the shelf. I didn't need the words inside to remind me of what I already carried within me.
------------------------------
The days that followed were marked by duality: hope and melancholy. Clara continued to be an important pillar in my life, but I also noticed how, at times, she looked at me with quiet concern, though she never said anything outright.
One evening, while we were having dinner at her apartment, she decided to confront me.
"Why do you feel like you have to carry everything alone?" she asked, setting her fork down on her plate and looking at me directly.
"I don't want others to bear a weight that's mine."
"But by not sharing it, you're letting it consume you. I'm not here to save you, but I want to be here with you in this."
Her words struck something deep within me. I had spent so much time isolating myself in my pain that I had forgotten I could allow someone else to share it.
Clara didn't press the matter further. Her words hung in the air, like a gentle invitation rather than a demand. For the rest of the evening, I thought about what she had said. It wasn't easy to let someone else see the cracks, but maybe it was the only way to keep them from breaking me entirely.
------------------------------
The days that followed were different. Not easier, but different. I began to open up more to Clara, telling her about my past, about Astrid, about the things I felt but didn't know how to explain. And though painful, it was liberating.
I also started writing again. Not in the journal, but on loose sheets of paper that I burned afterward. Writing became a way of talking to myself, of understanding the cracks I carried inside. Watching the flames consume the words felt strangely cathartic, as though I was letting go of something each time.
One afternoon, while we were walking through the park, Clara took my hand.
"You know what I love most about kintsugi?" she asked.
"What?" I replied, looking at our intertwined hands.
"It doesn't just repair—it transforms. The cracks become art."
I looked at our joined hands, and for the first time in a long while, I felt that maybe my cracks could shine too.