ALL THINGS MUST PASS

I'd have you anytime

I’M NOT REAL AND I DENY, I WON’T HEAL UNLESS I CRY, I CAN’T GRIEVE, SO I WON’T GROW, I WON’T HEAL TIL I LET IT GO

I'm not too good with goodbyes — is anyone? The space between these words feels as vast as the space between you and me. There's a lingering anticipation of when I'll see you again, a fear that leaves me frozen. Will it be the same as it was? Will it feel the same? Will I remember the sound of your voice, the way your mouth creased when you smiled? Will your hair fall the same way it did the last night I saw you? Will your eyes still meet mine — in silence, a second too long? All these questions run through my mind between each syllable of goodbye. Yes, I will remember. And I will miss you every second after.

I WANT YOUR THINGS IN MY ROOM

FATAL CHARM

I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.

There’s always a moment in conversation when you realize the other person is truly perceiving you. You're being seen—seen as interesting enough to engage with, and usually, in response to that attention, you decide to play into it. You lean into the character you're crafting for this unassuming stranger. But everything you're saying is a lie. Or, at best, an embellishment of the truth. You're not engaging in the conversation because you're too busy performing.

You’ve slipped into a costume you didn’t consciously choose, but wear so often that it feels bound to your skin. Every nod is calculated, every anecdote rehearsed, every pause intentional, all to be charming. Over time, I’ve found myself lost: Does anyone truly know me? The real me?

The strange part is that this performance isn’t always intentional. Most of the time, it’s automatic—something I step into so naturally. It feels easier than risking rejection for being too much, or worse, not enough. In the quiet, there’s a hollowness. I’ll replay conversations and realize I never actually said what I meant. I gave them a performance instead of a person. And sometimes I wonder if there exists a time when I won’t be able to recognize the difference.

From a young age, I understood I had a precocious talent for keeping up with adults in conversation. I was intuitive. Witty enough to hold my own. I could relate. I would spend a lot of time studying faces, voice inflections, speech patterns. I analyzed every word that earned a laugh or an awe. I learned the right things to say—but more importantly, I learned when to say them. I knew where to interject without drawing too much attention, just enough to signal that I wasn’t some clueless child. That I, too, deserved to be taken seriously.

As I grew older, I knew I wanted to master conversation, not for the sake of connection, but to be liked. I craved being liked. I still do. By everyone. But you don’t win people over by talking; you do by listening. So I offered my ears. I gave my time. To anyone. To everyone.

Listening, for me, became less of a virtue and more of a strategy. It was how I won affection without exposing myself. I could be present without being vulnerable. When you’re the listener, you get to curate your responses, measure your impact. You’re the mirror in the room, reflecting everyone else back to themselves. And most people (not me included) love mirrors. Some fall in love with what they see, not realizing their reflection is only partial because it’s always silent.

Listening can take its toll. It becomes a form of disappearance. You become the person others confide in, rely on, but rarely ask about. You’re there, but partially invisible. Heard, but not known. And the worst part is, it doesn’t even feel unfair. It feels earned. Like you trained them to treat you this way. Because you did.

There’s comfort in listening, yes. But also control. If I’m listening, I can’t be misinterpreted. I can’t say the wrong thing. I can’t reveal too much. But if I’m always absorbing, when do I ever release? What happens to the parts of me I’ve kept quiet for so long? Are they still intact? Or have they eroded from neglect?

My mother was always a great listener. My grandmother, too. They engaged with whatever nonsense I rambled about during adolescence—always patient, always kind. But they never lied. Two guardians of the truth. And maybe that’s what made them so magnetic: their refusal to perform. Their presence was a kind of honesty. An honesty I hadn’t yet learned how to give.

I’ve only ever wanted to be interesting. To offer something to the world, to those around me. I’d rather be dead than boring. I wonder if being interesting is even the goal anymore, or if what I’ve wanted all along is to be known.

And maybe that means being boring sometimes. Maybe it just means being real.

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