Realization came quietly with age. The older I grew, the more I understood that nothing is ever quite what it seems.

I was raised in noise, where emotions felt heavy, loud, and exhausting. I learned to resent them, to mistake silence for strength. Yet, no matter how tightly I bury my own feelings, they always find their way back to the surface. After all, I am only human.

So I write what I cannot say. Words have always carried what my voice could not. Stories are easier than confessions. To witness lives, collect fragments, and turn them into words. Some stories are never meant to be told aloud; only written.