Lately, I’ve been feeling this strange kind of emptiness. The kind that lingers quietly, even when I’m surrounded by laughter and voices and people who care. I nod, I smile, I even laugh sometimes — but none of it feels real. It’s like I’m there, but not really there. Like I’m drifting somewhere just behind my own eyes, watching it all from a distance.
I know I’m not the most exciting person in the room. I’ve told myself that so many times it’s almost become part of my identity. So I force a version of myself that might seem more likable, more “normal,” more fun. And honestly? That version exhausts me.
I wish I could stop pretending. I wish someone could look past the surface and just understand — without me having to explain, without judgment, without that awkward silence that always follows when you say something real.
I look strong, I know that. I’ve been wearing this mask for so long it’s practically a second skin. But the truth is, I feel like I’m slowly drowning. Quietly. Silently. While everyone else just keeps talking.
And the saddest part? The one person I feel closest to — I can’t even tell her this. I’m scared she won’t like this side of me. That she’ll think I’m too much. Too broken. Or worse… she’ll get angry, and then I’ll lose the little bit of comfort I still cling to.
So I keep quiet.
I keep pretending.
And every night, I carry the weight of all the words I never said.
Maybe someday I’ll find someone who sees through it. Someone who’ll sit next to me, say nothing, and still make me feel understood.
But until then… I guess I’ll just keep being okay.
Even when I’m not.