The Wrong Version

I was supposed to say yes.

To the city, to the open mic, to the boy who called me fire.

To the late-night bus and the wrong job and the solo apartment

where I might’ve cried freely and become whole.

***

But I said no.

No, because I thought my thighs were too large

for that stage,

for that desk,

for that bed.

No, because the fear said:

They will see you.

They will know you are too much and not enough.

They will laugh at you and leave.

So I stayed where leaving wasn’t an option.

***

Depression told me I’d fail.

Anxiety told me I’d choke.

My parents said I was brave—for staying.

Brave for being good.

For folding myself into their version of safety

like linen into a drawer.

***

They said:

“Pick something secure.”

“Be careful with money.”

“Think of the kids.”

“Don’t ruin your life with dreams.”

***

So I became practical.

Efficient.

Tidy in my undoing.

A mother with full arms and a silent throat.

A wife without edges.

A body that moved through days

like it owed them something.

***

I stayed in the middle of the country

where the people are kind until they know you,

where every street says, “Be smaller,”

where even my voice feels like a scandal.

***

I had no community.

Only obligations.

Only recipes, carpools, the careful choreography

of disappearing while smiling.

***

And the whole time,

I thought I was too ugly to run.

Too fat to be seen.

Too loud to be loved.

I said no to risk,

because I thought I had to earn beauty

before I could ask for anything.

***

But I look back now—

at that photo on the roof, that dress, those eyes—

and I was gorgeous.

Radiant in a way that didn’t need fixing.

I was the girl who could have gone.

And I didn’t go.

***

Now my knees ache.

Now the mirror tells the truth,

and the truth is cruel in its timing.

Now I chase health like a penance

and forgiveness like it might arrive in the mail.

***

This isn’t self-pity.

This is evidence.

Of a life built around the wrong axis.

Of a woman raised to serve survival

and call it joy.

***

I want to say it’s not too late.

But the truth is—

some trains don’t come back.

Some doors close without slamming.

***

And some girls don’t die.

They just become

the wrong version

of who they were supposed to be.