The Version of Me You'll Never Know

You’ll never know the version of me that laughed without hesitation, the one who danced barefoot in the kitchen at midnight to songs no one else liked but I played on repeat anyway, not caring who heard. You’ll never know the way my eyes used to light up when someone simply remembered my favorite color, or the way I used to cry during movies—not because they were sad, but because I felt everything so deeply, every scene, every silence. That version of me believed in love letters and second chances, in healing through words and kindness that didn’t need to be earned. She was gentle and naïve, trusting the wrong people but still hopeful they’d prove her right. She gave more than she ever received and smiled even when her heart cracked quietly. You’ll never meet the girl who stayed up all night just to text her best friend through heartbreak, who never hung up the phone first, who kept screenshots of happy messages like they were treasure. You won’t know the girl who used to keep a dream journal, who believed signs from the universe were real and that everything happened for a reason. That version of me was soft in a world that didn’t reward softness. She broke slowly—one betrayal, one silence, one goodbye at a time. But she kept loving anyway. Until one day, she couldn’t. One day, she woke up and didn’t recognize her own face in the mirror—not because it had changed, but because her spirit had. You’ll never know how long I stood there, brushing my hair and pretending everything was fine, when inside I was mourning the girl I used to be. That version of me wrote poems and never shared them, took photos of sunsets and whispered thank you to the sky. She still believed people meant what they said, that if someone said “forever,” they meant it. But “forever” was just a word, and words don’t keep promises. You’ll never know how I slowly built my walls, how every kind gesture now feels like manipulation, how compliments make me suspicious, how silence feels safer than vulnerability. You’ll never see the way I flinch when people raise their voice, even in laughter, because once upon a time, yelling didn’t stop at words. You won’t understand why I overthink every sentence I send or why I apologize too much, even when I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ll never meet the version of me that trusted people with her whole heart and expected the best in return. That girl died quietly, with no funeral. Just a quiet resignation that the world wasn’t what she hoped it would be. What’s left is someone stronger, colder, sharper. Someone who doesn’t dream as much but gets more done. Someone who doesn’t cry in movies but notices every word. I’ve become someone who listens more than she speaks, who hides her softness under sarcasm and her kindness behind caution. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I still mourn her. The version of me you’ll never know. The version of me who loved without fear, who forgave without limits, who smiled like the world was good. She’s gone, but sometimes, when no one’s watching, I still catch a glimpse of her in the mirror, whispering that maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to be her again someday.