It’s midnight, or maybe the night has just begun. I’m twenty-two, alone, sitting in a room that isn’t even mine, living at my brother’s place, unsure of how I got here. The world feels too quiet, too still. The tapping of my keyboard is the only sound that connects me to something real. Everything else feels dead, like the emptiness of this space, where I can’t help but feel lost.

I’ve written many things in my life, poems that echo my emotions, but this—this is something different. I’m writing as me, as my raw self, unsure, fragile. The room I sit in is filled with the scent of music, the kind I used to love. But even here, with the sound that once filled me with warmth, I can’t seem to feel it. The music is pure, but it doesn’t reach me.

I crave stories—my stories. The kind that are drenched in feeling, with a touch of the truth I’ve never dared to show. Maybe I’m saying too much, maybe I’m just rambling, but it feels right. I want to write something real, something that doesn’t hide behind pretty words. So here it is.

I feel unseen. I feel like I’m fading into the background of my own life. I want to be loved, more than anything, but it’s like I’m trapped in a cycle. People come and go. I’ve had three boyfriends, each one leaving their mark, but none of them ever really saw me. They were there, but only when they needed something. I’m scared that’s all I’ll ever be—a convenience, a moment, a fleeting need. Am I lovable? Am I worth staying for?

I don’t know anymore. Every day feels like a test of my worth. And I wish I could stop caring. My best friend tells me to let it go, to stop obsessing, but how do you stop loving when love is all you crave? How do you stop feeling things so deeply that it hurts?

I cry often. They call me a crybaby, but how can I not when I feel everything twice as hard as anyone else? My joy is bright, but my sorrow is heavier than most can understand. It’s not easy to forget, not easy to forgive, not when your heart feels like it's been broken a thousand times.

Maybe no one will read this. Maybe no one will understand. But it’s me. This is the truth that I’ve been hiding. It’s all I have left, and I’m giving it to you, even if you can’t hear me.

This is my story. My darkest secret. And I’m still here, smiling even though I feel like I’m falling apart. Maybe that’s the only thing that matters—to keep going, even when you’re lost.