There’s a version of me
I don’t introduce people to.
Not because I’m ashamed.
Because explaining them
would take too long.
They live behind my smile,
behind the stories I tell,
behind every “I’m fine”
that leaves my mouth
before I’ve had a chance
to think about it.
They know things.
The weight of regret.
The sound of a heart breaking
without making a noise.
The loneliness
that can exist
even when you’re surrounded
by people who care.
They remember
every goodbye
I pretend doesn’t matter anymore.
Every disappointment
I claimed I was over.
Every night
I spent staring at the ceiling
trying to convince myself
tomorrow would feel different.
And somehow—
they’re still here.
Still carrying pieces of me
I haven’t figured out
how to put back together.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe healing
isn’t becoming someone new.
Maybe it’s learning
to stop abandoning
the versions of yourself
that suffered in silence.
Maybe it’s finally sitting beside them
instead of running.
Maybe it’s saying,
I know you’re tired.
I know you’ve carried this alone.
But you don’t have to anymore.
And maybe that’s where it begins—
not with fixing,
not with forgetting,
but with finally
coming home
to yourself.
Through the Fog 
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