a quick look — for those who need the outlines.
🌧️ presence
morgan is the one who remains when everyone else goes quiet. she is not the first voice in this system, nor the loudest, but she is the one most willing to carry weight. it is not a matter of strength, not really. it’s more like familiarity — the weight feels known to her, as if she was born under it. she walks through each day collecting the little pieces no one else could hold onto, storing them in back corners of her mind until the air inside her begins to hum with static. she keeps everything: birthdays, passwords, doctor’s appointments, emotional landmines from a decade ago. and she forgets, too, but selectively, like a reflex. whole days vanish, and yet she will remember the sound of someone saying her name wrong with just enough cruelty to unravel her. memory for morgan is a fractured, reverent thing. it hurts to keep it, and it hurts more to let it go.
there is a deep tiredness in her — the kind that lives in the bones and not just the body. a kind of weariness that stretches back into the years before she had a name of her own. she wakes up and dresses like a person who is trying, but not too hard. denim soft from use, sleeves that cover the wrists, colors muted like she’s trying not to be seen. not out of shame, but for survival. she knows what attention can do. she knows how fragile a sense of safety is, and how easily it can be stripped away by a glance, a word, a misstep. even when she is alone, she often dresses like someone who expects to have to run.
she’s always been soft. not in a passive or naive way, but in the sense that she bruises easily and still chooses to keep her hands open. her softness is deliberate — a decision she remakes every time someone treats her like she’s disposable. she does not forgive easily, but she rarely acts out her anger. instead, it simmers in her chest, heavy and hot and private. people assume she is kind because she speaks gently. they don’t know that half the time she is rehearsing silence, choosing not to say what she wants because she’s afraid of what might follow. the world taught her early that speaking back could cost her everything. so now, she negotiates every sentence in advance.
it is not easy being the one who fronts the most. most people don’t understand what it means to constantly be the face of a fractured self. morgan shows up to work when she’s empty. she goes to appointments when she’s dissociating so hard she can’t feel her own feet. she answers texts like she isn’t overwhelmed. she keeps the house running. she keeps her mouth shut in public. she shows up, even when she doesn't feel real. there’s a kind of grief in that repetition — like she’s always playing a version of herself, never quite arriving at the center. and still, she persists. not because she has hope, always, but because she believes in rhythm. in inertia. in putting one foot in front of the other because someone has to.
morgan feels everything. too much, usually. she’s learned to tuck it away, to compartmentalize it behind practiced language and quiet smiles. but it leaks out in small ways — in the way her voice cracks when talking about something she claims doesn’t matter, or how she picks at her cuticles when the topic turns too intimate. she will give you the truth, eventually, but you have to ask gently and stay long enough not to flinch. she does not hand herself over easily. trust is something she builds like a fort, stick by stick, wound by wound. once she lets you in, though, you will find someone terrifyingly loyal. someone who remembers what you said when you were half-asleep. someone who would take on your pain if it meant you could breathe easier.
she is, by nature, a poet — not just in writing, but in the way she perceives. everything holds symbolism for her. a broken mug is never just a mug. a forgotten voicemail becomes an echo she can’t shake. she notices patterns, shifts in tone, the emotional temperature of a room the moment she steps inside. it’s exhausting, and she rarely says anything about it unless asked. she internalizes discomfort like it’s her fault and apologizes even when she’s the one bleeding. it would be easier, maybe, to go numb. but numbness scares her more than pain. pain means she’s still here.
morgan doesn’t know if she believes in healing the way other people talk about it. she’s skeptical of any story that has a clean ending, or any person who says they’re fixed. what she believes in is adaptation. she believes in scar tissue, in finding ways to live with the damage without pretending it didn’t happen. she believes in quiet joy — the kind that comes from a playlist that hits just right, or the moment when the light catches dust in the air and makes the world feel slower. she believes in late-night conversations where no one has to explain why they feel broken. she believes in holding on, not because it’s easy, but because it’s what she knows.
there’s a world where morgan didn’t survive. where she let the silence win. she thinks about that version of herself sometimes — not out of morbid curiosity, but as a reminder that she didn’t take that exit. she stayed. she answered the calls. she kept the body alive. and that means something, even if no one else ever sees it. even if she forgets her own name in the middle of a crowded store. even if she has to remind herself that she exists. she is still here. and that’s enough, for now.