'THE UNSPOKEN SHELF'

 Hey there folks! (Sending you a virtual wave) ✌

Welcome to another episode of  "Yours Mindfully".

Hope you're all doing well and life has been kind enough for you.There's something clicked in my mind recently , I decided to clean out my old basement room and finally organize my things. But while doing so, I stumbled upon something unexpected. Even I didn’t know it existed.

It was a giant, well-crafted shelf. Polished, elegant, carved with royal wood like something pulled from the corners of a palace.

I opened its doors with a bit of curiosity, but the inside wasn’t nearly as majestic as the outside.

There were spider webs in the corners, dust settled thick as if untouched for years. It looked like a long forgotten treasure and as I brushed off the dust from one of the shelves, something caught my eye. Engraved in fine, fading letters:

“The Unspoken Shelf.”

Hold on—are we entering a fantasy?

Just stick with it, I heard a voice say from somewhere inside me.

So I did. I kept dusting, kept opening, and the first book I reached for was titled:

“The Love That Never Happened.”

Its cover was so beautiful, almost hypnotic, like a page torn from a forgotten fairy tale. But the pages weren’t made of paper; they were petals. Soft, delicate, almost weightless. Each petal was written on with fine ink, and as I turned them, a different fragrance filled the air that transcended me to the likes of old cafés, spring rain, warm laughter. The words weren’t just read. They were heard whispering, humming quietly, like voices from the past. But the story wasn’t a full one. It ended not with a climax, but with a slow, half-hearted silence.

What began like magic turned into quiet goodbyes, aching what-ifs, and yet, the memories never faded.

They simply hid, waiting to be found, waiting to be touched, real as the book I held in my hands.

Some pages were written on thorns. Painful, sharp .They held the bittersweet parts, the moments we remember with both a smile and a sting .Maybe if we had remembered the petals, we wouldn't have let the thorns bleed our hands.

Was it really a fairy tale?

Or did we just dress it like one?

At the very end, there it was softly etched into the last petal:

"They were never written in the stars, but somehow, they still found a place in each other's story."

---

The second book I opened sent a chill through my skin.

Titled:

“The Apologies I Never Did.”

Its cover looked like it had waited years to be touched again.Dust had settled deep into its corners, like it had been holding its breath.There was no fragrance this time. No warmth. Just silence.

But a silence that echoed.

Though the book was slim, it was heavy in my hands.

Heavy with the weight of unsaid words, unfinished sentences, and the long pauses that spoke louder than any scream ever could.

Sometimes we let silence define the moment. A heart full of words, but a mouth frozen with pride. We hold back not because we don’t care, but because fear, ego, or timing gets in the way.We always think there will be more time.

As I turned each page, the words began to fade.Not all at once, but slowly, like regret settling in.

Each line reminded me of a chance I lost, a conversation I never dared to start, and a healing I never allowed to happen.

There were parts I wanted to rewrite.

And at the end, in soft, almost fading ink, it read:

“It’s never too late, unless you never try.”

---

The third book had a strange shimmer.

Its cover was coated in a sheet of glass, cold to the touch, reflecting my face as I reached for it.

It was titled:

“The Mirror I Didn’t Look.”

Right on the inside cover, there was a short preface:

“There existed a kind of bravery… that was never seen.”

As I read on, I began to remember all the moments I avoided my own reflection not just in mirrors, but in my choices, my thoughts, my worth.

Moments where I didn’t recognize the light life had thrown my way.

I’d walked through victories without celebrating them, passed through pain without ever really acknowledging its weight.

How often do we look beyond our scars?

How often do we fail to see our own strength?

Is being brave about standing alone in a battlefield?

Or is it about choosing to get up again even when no one’s watching?

Some pages were covered in fog, showing how blurry my self-perception had been others were clear as water, holding the truths I had been too afraid to confront.

And when I reached the last page, there were no words.

Just a mirror.

It didn’t ask me to read anything.

Just to look.

And in that moment, I didn’t see flaws or failures.

I saw a survivor. A story still unfolding

                                           *******************************************

So maybe it's time now.

Dust off your own shelf that was quiet, forgotten, tucked deep inside.

Open the books you left untouched.

Turn the pages of memories, regrets, dreams, and truths some may sting, others may soothe. But all of them are yours.

And perhaps, just perhaps, they’re ready to be seen.

Until next time,

Yours Mindfully.