They always said I was strong. That nothing seemed to faze me, that I brushed off pain like dust on my sleeve. And maybe that's what I let them believe. It was easier that way—to smile, to nod, to act like words didn't cut and actions didn't leave scars.
But the truth? I feel everything.
Every careless word, every time I was an afterthought, every joke that went just a little too far—I carried them all. I swallowed the hurt, buried it deep, and pretended it wasn't there. Because what else could I do? If I spoke up, it would be "overreacting." If I showed I was hurt, it would be "too sensitive."
So, I stayed quiet.
I laughed when I was supposed to. I played along. And in the silence of my own space, when no one was watching, I let the weight of it all sink in. The people who said they cared never noticed the cracks forming. Never saw the way I flinched at certain words or the way my heart tightened when I realized I wasn't as important to them as they were to me.
But I let it be.
Not because it didn't hurt—but because fighting for people who don't see your pain is a battle already lost.