When No One's Asking; When No One's Looking.

The Things We Don't Tell

There's a strange kind of comfort in keeping secrets, isn't there? Not the big, life-altering ones, but the small, personal ones—the ones about who you are when no one's looking.

I've always told people I don't write when asked. And I've been convincing, too. If someone asks, "Do you write?" I'll laugh it off, shake my head, and maybe throw in a casual, "Oh, I wouldn't even know where to start." It's almost a game now—seeing how convincing I can be.

But the truth is, I do write. And I've been doing it for years.

There's this Wattpad account I started a long time ago. It's my little corner of the world, hidden in plain sight. No one knows it exists—not my family, not my closest friends. Maybe two people knew at some point, but it's been so long since I mentioned it that I'm sure they've forgotten.

I don't even know why I keep it a secret. It's not like I'm writing groundbreaking literature or anything. In fact, I wouldn't even call myself a "writer" in the traditional sense. I'm not one of those eloquent, expressive types who turn every thought into poetry or philosophical musings. If anything, I've always given off the opposite impression.

I know people who are writers—the ones who wear their creativity like a badge and pour their emotions onto the page effortlessly. Some of them have even asked me outright, "Do you write?" And every single time, I've said no. Not because I'm ashamed, but because it's easier to keep that part of me tucked away, safe and untouched.

I've created an image of myself that's so far removed from the truth. To the outside world, I'm someone who doesn't write, doesn't sing, doesn't dance. Yet in my quiet moments, I do all of these things. I fill pages with stories no one else will ever read. I sing when no one's around, my voice filling the silence. I dance in my room like it's the most natural thing in the world.

These things feel sacred to me. They're mine, and mine alone. Sharing them would feel like giving up a piece of myself—a piece I'm not sure I want to risk losing.

When I was younger, back in school, I auditioned for the choir once. It was one of those nerve-wracking moments where your heartbeat is so loud, you wonder if everyone else can hear it. I got in. I remember how proud I felt in that moment of triumph. But it didn't last. My parents decided I couldn't continue because exams were more important. Just like that, my courage fizzled out.

After that, I stopped trying. It wasn't that I lost my love for singing, dancing, or writing—I just stopped sharing it. My new school wasn't the kind of place that encouraged these things, and I didn't want to risk the sideways glances or whispered judgments. It was easier to let people believe I wasn't interested.

I've learned how fragile joy can be when you let the wrong people near it. Even a casual comment like, "Oh, you like that?" said with the wrong tone can burrow into your mind and make you second-guess yourself. It's not strangers' opinions that sting the most; it's the offhand remarks of people you care about.

So, I've built walls. Not because I don't trust the people I love, but because I don't want to give anyone—even by accident—the power to make me stop loving the things that make me who I am.

Every time I choose silence over sharing, I wonder what it would feel like to be fully seen.

Maybe one day, I'll let those walls down. Maybe I'll dance at an event or share one of my stories. Maybe I'll sing in front of people again. Or maybe I'll keep these things just for me, and that's okay too.

The truth is, even the quietest joys have a way of shining through.