I don’t say these out loud.
I write them down.
In the dark. In silence.
In the pages I never share.
These aren’t cries for help.
They’re just quiet truths.
Honest moments with myself—
the kind that only show up when the world goes still.
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What if I outgrew everyone I love?
And what if I’m not sorry?
What if walking away isn’t abandonment, but alignment?
Why do I feel lonelier when I’m not alone?
What’s wrong with me that I can be held and still feel cold?
Maybe I just need a different kind of closeness—the kind that meets me, not just touches me.
Would I even recognize peace if it finally showed up?
Would I push it away just because it didn’t hurt?
Maybe chaos is familiar, but that doesn’t mean it’s home.
What version of me is still waiting for closure?
And does she know no one’s coming to give it to her?
Maybe I have to become the person who finally lets her rest.
Why does almost hurt more than never?
Why does the nearly sting longer than the no?
Because almost gives you just enough to imagine everything else.
How long do I have to be strong before someone notices I’m tired?
Before someone says, “You don’t have to carry it all today.”
I want softness without having to fall apart to earn it.
What if I’m not lost—just between places?
What if this version of me isn’t incomplete, just still unfolding?
Maybe I’m not behind… maybe I’m just blooming slowly.
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These questions don’t make me broken.
They just make me real.
I’m not falling apart. I’m just finally listening.
And that’s a kind of healing too.
