Some weeks carry a low, quiet conviction that you're somehow unlovable, surfacing most at the day's dark edges.

Pale silver and blue-white, violet beneath. It has the cool of still water and the faint scent of white flowers and night air.

The sense of being unlovable can feel like clear sight; mostly it's just an old story told in the dark. It convinces no one else of anything — it holds a quiet turn toward your own worth, gently, before the night's story hardens.