I didn’t wear a mask—
I became one.
Not out of weakness,
but survival.
Because every time I reached for love,
I got silence.
Every time I opened up,
I got judged.
So I stopped reaching.
Stopped explaining.
Stopped hoping.
I disappeared on purpose.
Locked the door from the inside.
Let the world keep spinning
while I sat with the storm
called me.
They never saw the real pain—
not because I hid it,
but because they never cared to look.
They were too busy making me a villain
to ask why I bled so quietly.
So I built a world with no visitors.
Just me,
God,
and a pile of questions
no one else could answer.
Not the kind you Google,
but the kind that live in your chest.
The kind that ask:
Who am I when no one is clapping?
Who am I if I stop pretending?
Grief stripped me bare.
My father gone,
my voice unheard,
my spirit tired.
And in that emptiness,
I found everything.
See—
healing don’t come wrapped in clarity.
It comes in confusion.
In fear.
In the mirror asking hard questions.
It comes in choosing,
every damn day,
not to be who the world tried to make you.
I was never the cold one.
I just got tired of burning alone.
I was never heartless.
I just stopped handing it to people
who dropped it every time.
Now?
Now I don’t smile to be liked.
I don’t shrink to be safe.
I don’t play dead to keep the peace.
I’m no longer the person I pretended to be.
I’m the man I chose to become
in the silence.
In the dark.
Without applause.
Without rescue.
This is for the kids who feel invisible.
For the strong ones nobody checks on.
For the souls rebuilding in silence.
I see you.
I am you.
And you’re not broken—
you’re becoming.
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