What I think you need to hear

Soft Grey – The quiet ache of stillness, like a rainy morning no one waited for.

Neon Pink – Loud, messy, desperate to be noticed. Laughing even when it hurts

Deep Crimson – Anger dressed as elegance. Power with a pulse.

Dusty Lavender – A dream slowly fading into fog. Forgotten softness.

Iridescent – Shifting, ungraspable, not made to be pinned down.

Midnight Blue – Still waters that hide everything. Serenity or sorrow—you decide.

Gold Leaf – Beauty that cracks easily. You sparkle but you flake.

Black – The absence of expectation. The comfort of nothing.

Sickly Green – Jealousy, rot, rebirth. It’s not pretty, but it’s real.

Baby Blue – The color of pretending everything is okay.

Blood Orange – All-consuming intensity. The kind of person who loves until it burns.

White – Blank slate, or erasure? You’ve been everything for everyone.

Plum Purple – Rich, complex, hiding something beneath the surface.

Cherry Red – The mask of confidence. You want them to look.

Peach – Soft, sweet, but bruises easily.

“You were right to ask questions.” They called you difficult, angry, too much. But all you wanted was truth. You saw things clearly and that scared them. Don’t ever stop seeing

“I miss your dreams.” You used to believe anything was possible. Then the world started telling you to shrink. You were made of imagination once—do you remember?

“It wasn’t your fault.” You were handed too much too early—guilt that was never yours to carry, blame you never earned. You’ve spent years unlearning the idea that pain equals punishment. You deserve softness.

“You did what you had to.” No one protected you, so you learned to shift, adapt, morph. That wasn’t weakness—it was survival. You’re not fake. You’re forged.

“I forgive you for what you did to survive.” The silence. The distance. The pretending. None of it was betrayal. It was the only way you knew to stay afloat.

“I’m sorry I left you there.” In that moment. In that version of yourself. You moved on, but a part of you never did. Maybe it’s time to go back and bring them home.

“You didn’t have to be funny all the time.” You learned to survive by making others smile, but no one ever noticed when the joke stopped being funny. You buried your fear in punchlines. You wanted love, not laughter.

“You were never too much.” Not too loud, not too sensitive, not too messy. They just weren’t ready for someone like you. But you were glorious. You are.

“You don’t have to prove anything.” You tried so hard to earn your worth—through grades, charm, obedience. But you were already enough. You still are.

I retreat into my mind and pretend I’m somewhere else.

I write letters I never send and cry into pillows.

I make myself busy so I don’t have to feel it.

I become obsessed with understanding why.

I change my hair, my clothes, my name—start over.

Dangerous. Like I’m giving someone a weapon and hoping they won’t use it.

Transactional. I give, I receive—there’s always a cost.

A role I’m expected to play perfectly.

Hilarious, in a way. Everyone’s pretending it doesn’t hurt.

Fleeting. I’m not sure I’ve ever really touched it.

I become a new person entirely.

I ghost everyone and disappear.

I pretend I’m fine, tell a joke, and move on.

I rewrite the story in my head a thousand times.

I get angry. I analyze what went wrong.

Invisible. Like I’m there but not really

Like I’m performing. They see what I want them to see.

Superior, but disconnected. No one gets it

Anxious. I want to leave but also be wanted.

Different in every room.

Smile through it. Mask the overwhelm.

Snap. Get sharp. Shut everything out.

Vanish and come back someone else.

Escape into a book, a show, a fantasy.

Cry quietly and tell no one.

In a goodbye I didn’t want to say.

For a second, during an argument.

When I was pretending to be someone else.

I don’t think I ever have.

While making someone laugh.

Being truly known and found disappointing. You joke, you dance, you wear a hundred masks. But deep inside is a terrifying thought: what if the real you isn’t enough? What if people only love the version you crafted, not the soft, scared truth of who you are?

Losing control and being powerless. You’ve seen what happens when you let someone else steer. Chaos. Hurt. So now you build the walls, write the rules, speak with precision. You don’t just fear helplessness—you hate it. Because somewhere in your story, being weak got you hurt.

Being stuck in a version of yourself you don’t recognize. You’ve reinvented yourself so many times you’ve lost track. You wonder who you are without the trends, the survival instincts, the shifting. But stopping feels scarier than changing—because then you’d have to sit with the parts of you you’ve buried.

Being vulnerable and not loved in return. You’ve opened yourself before—wide and trembling—and someone didn’t stay. Now every time you feel yourself start to care, you close the door a little faster. Love is something you want more than anything, but also something you’d rather destroy before it destroys you.

Waking up and feeling nothing at all. It’s not the sadness that scares you—it’s the numbness. The way days blur and memories slip and people touch you but you don’t feel it. You keep going out of habit, hoping that maybe something will spark again.