the words I kept

𝓣𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂­𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒒𝒖𝒆

Walking among the crowds,

she drifts—displaced,

haunted by the hush

of not belonging.

A question flickers:

Is she enough for this world?

Her mind—

a machine grinding doubt,

churning misery 

in relentless loops.

Who is she?

And whoever that is—

is she worthy

of love,

of success,

of being seen?

The tape rewinds, replays,

a cruel soundtrack

of "not enough."

Her stride hastens,

as that voice—the harsh one—

hisses through her skin:

"You can't.

You won't.

You're nothing."

A single tear slips down

her porcelain mask,

betraying her buried ache

 to the world's indifferent gaze.

Quickly, she wipes it—

the only trace

of discontent—

and blends back in,

syncing steps

with the emotionless crowd

of beautifully broken masks. 

 But somewhere, 

beneath the mask,

a flicker waits—unafraid to burn. 

🌧

- 𝐵𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓀

🌧

Author's Note:

Hello there! I wrote this piece a few years ago in my senior year of high school when I felt entirely out of place. It was one of those seasons where I showed up every day with a smile, but deep down, I felt invisible. Like I had to wear a mask just to survive the world around me.

If you've ever felt that way—questioning your worth, hiding your true self just to fit in—this piece is for you. It came from a place of quiet pain, but also quiet strength and resilience.

Even in the loneliest moments, a flicker inside us always refuses to die. I hope this speaks to you. And maybe, even in a small way, it helps you feel less alone. Thank you so much for reading. 💛

When no one's looking,

she breathes deeper—

not the shallow, practised sighs

they've come to expect.

She lets her spine uncoil,

lets the mask slip—

just a little—

enough to feel skin again.

She hums old dreams

beneath her breath,

the ones she buried

to make space for silence.

She remembers

how it felt to run,

not from—

but toward something.

She speaks in whispers

to the mirror at night,

a secret language

for the girl still burning

beneath the ash.

She is tired, yes—

but tired of hiding.

Tired of shrinking

for rooms too small

to hold her truth.

And though the world

has not yet made space,

she begins

to make space

within herself.

Because when no one's looking,

she is becoming.

And one day—

they will look,

and she will not flinch.

- 🌒 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒩𝑜 𝒪𝓃𝑒'𝓈 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 🌘