I know no one reads this.
And still I write.
Sometimes I try to catch myself in the act, am I confessing to the page, or am I leaving breadcrumbs for someone I hope will stumble across me and finally say, “I see it. I see you.”
But even if they did read it… what then?
Understanding isn’t about words.
They weren’t there.
They didn’t grow up with that particular silence pressing against their ribs.
They didn’t learn how to shrink in the same corners.
They didn’t carry that specific kind of loneliness, the one that makes you feel invisible and exposed at the same time.
You did.
You walked through it without witnesses.
You stitched yourself back together without applause.
You became someone new in rooms that never noticed the old you dying.
And now there’s this hunger to have someone look at you and understand the cost of your calm. The price behind your strength. The history folded into your quiet.
But no one shares your eyes.
They can look at you. They can love you. They can try.
But they will always be translating.
And some things were never meant to survive translation.
So you write.