I never write for others to read. I write to express — to release the heaviness I carry — not for pity, not for attention, but simply to let my feelings breathe.
I never thought that the girl who was always there for everyone, the one with countless friends just a call away, could end up here — feeling this way. Maybe it’s some old wound or some unseen trauma that shaped me, but I’ve always been the open one, the available one. And yet, when it comes to showing my own cracks, my own vulnerability, I retreat.
I don’t know how many times I’ve felt lonely and helpless. Too many. But I brushed aside the concern of those who noticed I was “a little lost.” I just can’t take off this mask of being strong, of being happy, of being “okay.” It feels safer that way.
This little corner — this hidden place — is mine. Here I don’t have to pretend. Here, I can spill insecurities, loneliness, anger, hatred, and, most of all… hurt.
