You stare at the blank page, heart pounding, afraid of what it might reveal. The silence dares you to begin, yet you reach for borrowed words instead. They look polished, safe, familiar, but they do not belong to you. Your own words wait quietly in the margins, trembling with truth. They are imperfect and real and entirely yours. The fear of empty space is not about the page. It is about meeting yourself without disguise, and realizing that who you are has always been enough.
