Soriya whose beauty turned heads and softened hearts. Her laughter was the kind that made strangers smile, and her presence lit up rooms like morning sun through silk curtains. But behind the glow was a quiet ache—one that no mirror could reflect.
It began with a sickness, silent and slow. Her body, once vibrant and strong, began to shrink. Clothes hung loose. Her cheeks hollowed. People whispered, some with concern, others with cruelty. But no one saw the war she was fighting inside—the fatigue, the fear, the isolation.
Soriya didn’t choose to be thin. Her illness carved away at her like wind against stone. She missed meals not out of vanity, but because her stomach twisted in pain. She missed outings not out of pride, but because her legs trembled beneath her. And yet, she endured.
She learned to speak gently to herself. To dress in colors that made her feel alive. To write poems about the girl she used to be—and the woman she was becoming. Her beauty was no longer in her waistline or her skin, but in her resilience. In the way she showed up for herself, even when the world didn’t.
One day, she stood in front of the mirror—not to judge, but to witness. The ribs were still visible. The frame still delicate. But her eyes… her eyes held galaxies. She was not broken. She was becoming.
