If they knew me

She doesn't remember when pretending became living.

Each day, she walks through life like a ghost in her own skin-smiling when she should, answering when spoken to, and dimming the moment no one's looking.

No one sees the way she traces her scars under the sleeves of oversized sweaters. No one hears the screams she swallows before bed. She keeps her pain folded neatly inside herself, like letters never sent.

She is the product of silence. Of childhood stolen. Of love twisted into fear. Of generational wounds passed down like heirlooms.

And now, at the edge of her own mind, she's trying to figure out if surviving is the same as living-or if there's anything left to save.

This is not a love story.
This is her tragedy.
Raw. Unfiltered. Unforgiving.

If they knew her... they'd never look at her the same and she would hate that.