You’d think—based on my wardrobe, décor choices, and affinity for all things vaguely haunted—that I’d be a fall girl.
But no. My soul blooms in spring.
There’s something sacred about the return. The way the world thaws, stretches, and slowly decides to live again. Buds on branches. Light that lingers. That tiny spark of hope that creeps back into your chest before you’re even sure it’s safe to feel it.
I live for that.
Spring is the season that reminds you: you survived. You didn’t just get through the winter—you made space for something new. You healed quietly, invisibly. And now? You bloom boldly.
Yes, fall is velvet and smoke and golden decay. And trust me—I love a good moody aesthetic. But spring is possibility in pastel. It’s the first inhale that doesn’t hurt. It’s bare feet on warm grass and realizing you no longer have to brace yourself for the cold.
It’s softness with stamina.
Delicate, but not weak.
Beautiful, and fully aware of its power.
Tell me—what’s your favorite season?
And if it’s winter… blink twice and I’ll send you a blanket.
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