I’ve never told anyone this.
Not my friends. Not my family. Not even myself, not really.
Writing it down feels safer than saying it out loud. When I say things out loud, I worry about reactions. About faces changing. About someone interrupting or asking questions I’m not ready to answer. On the page, I get to go at my own pace. I can stop, erase, start again.
I don’t even know exactly what “this” is yet. I just know it’s been sitting inside me for a long time. It shows up in my thoughts when I’m alone, late at night, when everything else is quiet. It makes me feel different, like there’s something about me that doesn’t fit neatly into conversations.
Part of me is scared to write it, because once it’s written, it feels real. Like I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist anymore. But another part of me is tired of holding it in. Tired of acting like everything is normal when it doesn’t feel that way inside my head.
I don’t know who will read this. Maybe no one. Maybe someone like me, who hasn’t found the words yet either. I hope whoever sees this understands that it took courage just to put these sentences down.
This isn’t a confession or an answer. It’s just a beginning. The first time I’ve let myself be honest without knowing what comes next. And right now, that feels like enough.
