You used to be someone.
Someone real.
Someone soft in places the world said to harden.
Someone loud where others whispered,
or quiet where others screamed.

And then slowly—
or maybe all at once—
you became what they needed.
What they praised.
What they could tolerate.

You wore the costume.
Said the right things.
Laughed at jokes that scraped your ribs.
Held your tongue so tightly
you forgot what your own voice sounded like.

They loved you for it.
For the shape you bent yourself into.
For how easy it was to hold you
when you didn’t take up space.

But it wasn’t you.
Not really.

And one day, you stopped pretending.

You peeled off the practiced smile.
Spoke without softening your words.
Showed up as yourself—unfiltered,
tired,
truthful.

And they looked at you like a stranger.

Because the you they loved
was an echo.
An edit.
A version built to survive the spaces you never belonged in.

And now no one calls.
No one checks in.
Because the role is gone,
and they were never there for the person behind it.

You used to be someone.
Now you’re rebuilding from pieces they never cared to learn.
Trying to remember what you liked,
what you feared,
what made you feel like you were home in your own skin.

It’s lonely.
God, it’s lonely.
But it’s honest.

And even if no one recognizes you now—
you do.