Nobody Really Knows

Dear Delyara, People know pieces. People know versions. People know the practical facts of my life, the public outline, the roles I play, the parts I let them see without too much effort. But nobody really knows the inside of it. How heavy some evenings feel. How scared I sometimes am. How much resentment I carry next to love. How often I feel unseen inside usefulness. How much emotional translation I do before speaking. How much I swallow to keep the room easier for everybody else. People know me. But not like that. And sometimes that gap feels like the loneliest thing in the world.