I found it at the bottom of the box

I found it at the bottom of the box,

that careful stack of years I'd boxed away.

The pages fell open the right way,

like the book had been waiting, locked

inside that box for years.

And there it was: her handwriting,

neat cursive, the kind that takes care,

the kind that lingers.

"You're braver than you know."

Underlined.

I don't remember her anymore.

I can see her face if I try,

but it's faded, the way things fade.

We weren't close. We shared a class.

But today, packing to leave,

reading those words again,

I felt something crack.

Because I'm not braver.

I'm here, moving back into my childhood room,

because the other life didn't work,

because I failed at the one thing I was supposed to be able to do.

But she wrote it anyway.

Maybe she saw something I couldn't see in myself.

Maybe she was just being kind to a stranger.

Maybe it doesn't matter why.

I sat on the floor with the yearbook open,

and I let myself believe it for a moment—

that I was brave,

that I am brave,

that maybe she knew something

that I'm only now, years later,

starting to remember.