There’s a quiet shame stitched into the seams of wanting. Not just wanting something—no, we’ve learned to be bold about ambition, about goals, about the curated dream lives we post in digestible squares. But the wanting to be chosen? To be someone’s definite yes in a world of soft maybes? That kind of wanting, we tuck under polite detachment. We make jokes. We pretend we didn't notice when they hesitated. We apologize with our silence. With sentences that trail off. With the way we say “no worries” too quickly when someone forgets to show up, as if our worth is measured by how little space we occupy when disappointed. When did needing connection become a flaw? When did the ache to be seen—fully, wildly, without edit—become something we felt the need to shrink? I used to think I was too much. Too sensitive. Too intense. Too honest in a world that taught us to blink away the truth with emojis and distractions. I learned to wrap my needs in disclaimers. “I know this sounds clingy...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.