Writers 
There is a version of me
you will never know
the one who laughed loudly
to keep the sadness quiet,
the one who swallowed questions
because answers felt dangerous.
You never met the child
who learned to read the room
before learning to read books,
who measured love
by the sound of footsteps,
by the softness of voices,
by how long silence lasted.
You never saw the nights
I negotiated with my fears,
promising tomorrow
that I would be stronger,
even when today
had taken everything from me.
You knew the smile,
but not the story behind it.
You admired the calm,
but never witnessed
the storms I survived
without an audience.
There was a time
I mistook being needed
for being loved.
I gave away pieces of myself
until my reflection
looked like a stranger
wearing my face.
But somewhere between
the breaking and the becoming,
I found the courage
to gather myself again.
I stopped apologizing
for needing rest.
I stopped shrinking
to fit inside other people’s comfort.
I stopped calling loneliness
a price I had to pay for belonging.
Now, I am becoming
someone I once needed
gentle, honest, and free.
You may never meet
the version of me
who survived the darkness.
But if you meet me now,
please understand:
I did not become distant
because I stopped caring.
I became whole
because I finally started caring
about myself.
