Cierra Cheuvront
Bio
Every word here is a puzzle piece, fitting into stories that never happened but feel like they could have. I write truths disguised as fiction—or maybe it’s the other way around. Let's dive into it.
Stories (2)
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To The Stranger Who Still Owns My Heart
Hurt doesn’t even begin to cover it. When I think of you, it feels as though the entire dictionary fails me—there isn’t a word in any language that can capture the weight of what I feel. Hate? No, I can’t say I hate you. Hate is too strong, too final, too sharp. And yet, I wish I could feel that way. It would be easier, wouldn’t it? It would be cleaner. But this…this is messy, tangled, and impossible to define.
By Cierra Cheuvrontabout a year ago in Confessions
The Beginning
I’ve always wondered: am I the only one who walks around, constantly spinning stories in my head? Maybe that’s where imaginary friends go when we grow up—fading from sight, only to become stories instead of companions. But can they even be called “companions” if they were never really there? Still, they felt real to me. Real enough to fill quiet moments with dialogue, adventures, and entire worlds I could escape into.
By Cierra Cheuvrontabout a year ago in Confessions
