They are looking: Do not Move

Quiet, that is all I know. Quiet and still. Do not move. Do not let them see you. That is what I prefer.

But when I am quiet, they stare. They try to figure out what might be wrong with me. Why does silence make them uncomfortable? Why is being still seen as strange?

They say I am mean. Cold. But how can they know that from the few words I speak? Why must I be loud for them to hear me, to understand me? Why can’t I just be as I am, quiet and still?

I have thought about changing, shaping myself to fit the image they expect. But when I tried, I fell into a darkness so deep, I couldn’t see the light. It never truly bothered me that they didn’t like me, I know not everyone will. They say people are like tea, and I know mine is black, no sugar, no milk, an acquired taste.

But what did bother me was how they spoke about me. How they spread their version of me to others who had never even met me. They touched the story, left their fingerprints on it, and suddenly, I was not just misunderstood I was distorted.

Do I want to change to fix the image they created? I don’t know. Sometimes, I think life would be easier if I did, but that darkness is too suffocating.

I always knew they didn’t like me. I knew it was because they didn’t understand me. And that was fine, I never forced myself into their world. I let them be, gave them space, never whispered a word about their dislike.

I accepted that we were on opposite ends, never meant to meet.

But then they painted me with their own brush, bold strokes, harsh colours, in full view of the world. They left me exposed, vulnerable, without a voice to defend myself. Because if I spoke up, if I dared to add my own shade to their painting, they would simply say, “See? This is exactly what I told you about her.”

And so, I said nothing.

It’s sad, isn’t it? For someone who supposedly doesn’t care, I seem to care too much.

They forget that I am human. And though they have no interest in truly knowing me, I have no desire to pour myself out to them either. They wouldn’t get it. I would never fit into the mold they have created. No matter what I do, I will still be the outcast. The freak.

So I take a deep breath. I try to let it all go.

I stop trying, because I know they never did.
I try not to care.
I try not to hurt.
I try to stop the flood from spilling down my face.

I move, carrying the weight of emotions I cannot explain. I exhale, hoping to catch my breath.

I wish I never had to see them again, maybe then, the wounds would heal. But for now, I will erase their existence from my mind. The brush they used to paint me, it was theirs, not mine. I cannot control it.

And the ones who touched the paint, who believed their version of me? They are no different.

So I will forget them too.
I will move on.

I will live.