It's Not The Same Anymore

They say people change, but they never tell you how violent it feels when it’s not your choice. I didn’t grow into this — I shattered into it. And God, I hate it.

I wish people could just look at me — one quick glance — and know. Know what I’ve lost to become this quiet. I’m not asking for pity. I just want someone to ask, “What’s wrong?” and mean it. But I also want to lie and say, “Nothing at all.”

The part that hurts the most is how normal it’s become. These days, I don’t even flinch. Someone says something cruel or kind, and both feel the same. Like I’ve always known how to live like this — with emptiness. Like it’s been rehearsed.

I try to laugh about it. You ever get that? Like an old joke you don’t find funny anymore, but your body still flinches at the punchline. That’s what memory feels like now — familiar, tired, too sharp.

I used to run barefoot, careless. I thought I was free. Turns out, I was just naive. I believed hope arrived with every new day. And maybe it did, for a while. Just like my name — like a new dawn.

I try to remember her — the older version of me. She was messy, soft, hopeful. Do I still believe in joy? No. I’ve learned something cruel: sometimes, love stands quietly behind the door... and I don’t want to open it.

I’m no longer searching for what I lost. I don’t even care to knock. And for once, I won’t deny it. I won’t pretend I’m better than I am. This road I’ve walked has been lonely. I am sick, and I can’t help noticing how many people are fine leaving me like this.

But I survive. This is my survival kit: showing up with all the wrong pieces and calling it a day.

Even joy feels borrowed now. Like it belongs to someone else, and I’m just trying it on. It’s a luxury. A beautiful lie. At least pain wears makeup now.

If I’m already broken, I might as well be entertaining. Maybe that’s what kindness looks like now — jokes in the ruins. The world speaks in static. I can’t tell if I’m loved or simply tolerated.

The past tastes expensive. Like wine I can’t afford. It used to be mine. Now it’s served back to me in dreams — watered down, too sweet, and bitter on the last sip.