September 9th, 2025
My opinions and thoughts have always been my own. I used to share them freely — now, they usually come with a cost. People look at me differently afterward. They coddle or pity me; sometimes both. I want to tell you everything that’s on my mind, but when I try, my chest tightens — like it’s warning me that if I speak, I won’t survive the cost of it. I miss home. Not necessarily the people, but the feeling of it. I don’t really know how to explain that — it just makes sense to me. Lately, I seem to be the only one I make sense to. I try to keep out of the way — at work, in shops, on the road, even at home. I hate that I’m always waiting for something to go wrong — for the shoe to drop, for the floor to disappear. I feel like I’m waiting for a reason to run back home with my tail between my legs — but that would hurt more than anything. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could express it in a way that wouldn’t make you look at me differently.













