The ironic thing about life is that you are a different person to everyone you meet. To some, you’re quiet. To others, you never stop talking. Some remember you for your kindness, others for the time you walked away. You are a villain in someone’s story, a hero in another’s. And to most, you’re just a passing thought. A name they once knew.
You don’t exist as one person, but as countless versions of yourself, shaped by fleeting moments and personal perceptions. And here’s what’s unsettling. You will never truly know yourself the way others do. You will never hear your own laughter the way someone else does. You will never see the way your absence lingers in a room you used to fill. To yourself, you are just you.
But in reality, you are a thousand different stories, none of which you will ever get to read.
