The Art of Living on My Skin

Previously

…Pip closed the diary, a genuine smile spreading across their face. The ink stains on the pages, the smudged lines, the slightly frantic tone – they no longer felt like mistakes. They felt like badges of honor. They were the evidence of a life lived, imperfectly, messily, and with a surprising amount of humor. The reflection had indeed sparked something, not a desire for order, but an acceptance of the beautiful, chaotic art of being Pip.