It's strange how quiet nights can make you remember everything you've been trying to forget.
The world falls silent, and suddenly, it's just you — your thoughts, your regrets, your memories.
That night was no different. The wind was cold, brushing softly against my face as I stood near the railing by the water. The city lights flickered behind me, blurred by distance, and every now and then, the sound of laughter would echo from somewhere far away — a reminder that life was still moving, even when mine felt stuck.
Things nobody knows about me?
Well, there are a few.
When someone yells at me, I shut down. I don't fight back, I don't scream. I just… stop.
It's not because I don't have words — it's because I have too many.
They rush through my head, hitting every corner of my mind, and by the time I could speak, the moment's already gone.
So, I stay quiet. People think I don't care, but silence is just the only way I know how to survive.
Music has always been my therapy.
There's something about the right song at the right time — it understands you without asking questions. Some nights, I play the same song over and over again, not because it's beautiful, but because it says what I can't.
When words fail, music speaks.
It always has.
And love…
When I love, I love hard.
Not the kind of love you give out of habit, but the one that consumes you. The kind that makes you want to see someone happy, even if it's not with you.
I've loved people who didn't love me back, and I've stayed for people who were already halfway out the door.
But I still believe love is worth the risk — even when it hurts.
When life gets tough, I disappear.
I distance myself.
It's not that I stop caring; it's just that I don't want to be a burden.
I'd rather carry the weight alone than let someone see me breaking.
People think it's strength, but it's not. It's fear.
Fear of being too much, or maybe not enough.
I put other people's feelings before my own, every single time.
If you cry, I'll comfort you. If you're angry, I'll listen.
But when I'm the one falling apart, I'll smile and say, "I'm fine."
Because that's what people expect from me — the calm one, the strong one, the one who always has it together.
No one realizes that even strong people break; they just do it quietly.
I give too many chances.
It's both my strength and my weakness.
I forgive easily, not because I forget, but because I understand.
Maybe too much.
I've learned that people don't always mean to hurt you — sometimes, they're just trying to survive their own storms.
But even knowing that doesn't stop the pain when they leave.
I'm an overthinker.
My mind never stops.
I replay conversations from years ago, wondering what I could've said differently.
I analyze every silence, every look, every message left on "seen."
It's exhausting — living inside a mind that never rests.
And I take every word to heart.
Even the ones people say casually, without meaning anything.
"You're too sensitive."
"You think too much."
"You're not the same anymore."
Maybe I'm not. Maybe I've just grown tired of pretending that words don't hurt.
The truth is, I remember more negative things said to me than the positive ones.
It's not intentional — they just stick harder.
Compliments fade, but criticism echoes.
I can still recall the first time someone made me feel like I wasn't enough, and no matter how many times I prove otherwise, a part of me still believes it.
But here's the thing no one tells you:
We're all carrying something.
We all have those nights where we walk alone, pretending we're fine, hoping no one notices the sadness in our eyes.
We all have songs that remind us of someone we lost, or someone we're still trying to forget.
We all love too much, think too much, feel too much.
And that's okay.
That night, as I stood there by the railing, I realized something — I wasn't broken.
I was just human.
And being human means feeling deeply, even when it hurts.
I thought about all the times I'd been yelled at, all the times I'd retreated into silence, all the moments I'd put others before myself. And suddenly, it didn't feel like weakness anymore.
It felt like proof — proof that I care, proof that I still have a heart that believes in people, even after everything.
Maybe that's what strength really is.
Not hiding your feelings, but living with them — carrying them with grace, even when they weigh heavy.
The night breeze picked up, and I closed my eyes.
Somewhere behind me, a couple laughed. A car honked.
The world kept spinning, just as it always does.
And I took a deep breath.
Things nobody knows about me?
Maybe I don't have to hide them anymore.
Maybe it's okay to be soft in a world that demands you to be hard.
Maybe it's okay to admit that I care too much, that I overthink, that I love deeply.
Because in the end, that's what makes us real.
That's what makes us human.
I started walking home, the city lights fading behind me.
The water shimmered in the distance, reflecting the faint glow of the stars.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel the need to explain myself.
I didn't need to be understood — I just needed to be.
And maybe that's enough.