u/lets_get_weird29

She still searches for kindness

not in grand speeches

or promises dipped in gold,

but in the quiet corners

most people rush past.

In the long greetings at airports,

where tired eyes suddenly shine alive,

where arms wrap around someone

like they are finally home again,

like the whole world paused

just to let love breathe.

She finds it

in a child stopping mid-step

because a butterfly landed nearby,

tiny hands reaching toward wonder

instead of crushing it,

a smile so pure

it softens the sharp edges of the day.

She notices the old man

feeding birds before sunrise,

the stranger who says

“Drive safe”

and truly means it,

the friend who remembers

how you take your tea

without ever being told twice.

The world has not been gentle with her.

It taught her how easily hearts bruise,

how often people wear kindness

like a costume they remove at night.

Still—

she searches.

Because somewhere between

the airport reunions,

the butterflies,

the sleepy morning smiles,

and the small unnoticed mercies,

she is trying to prove to herself

that softness still exists.

And maybe,

in all her searching,

she is becoming

the very kindness

she hopes to find.

She stood with trembling, open hands,

A heart stitched together

From old storms,

Old betrayals,

Old nights spent teaching herself

How to survive quietly.

Yet somehow

She still believed in people.

She gave the world

The last soft piece of herself —

The untouched corner,

The sacred thing

She had hidden behind her ribs

For years.

And the world took it.

Not carefully.

Not kindly.

It crushed it beneath careless words,

Half-love,

Empty promises,

And hungry hands

That only knew how to take.

Now the girl sits alone

Among the ruins of her hope,

Wondering if kindness

Was just another way

To bleed.

So what does the broken girl do now?

Does she become cold?

Does she sharpen herself into something untouchable?

Does she build walls so high

Even sunlight cannot reach her?

Maybe for a little while.

Maybe she learns

That not everyone deserves

Access to her softness.

Maybe she stops handing out pieces of herself

To people determined

To drop them.

But broken things are strange.

Sometimes they do not die.

Sometimes they become wiser.

The girl gathers the shattered remains

Of her heart carefully this time,

Like collecting fallen stars,

And holds them against her chest.

Not to give away.

Not yet.

First, she learns

How to keep herself warm.

First, she remembers

That her heart was never worthless

Because others failed to protect it.

And one quiet morning,

After enough healing to breathe again,

The broken girl does something unexpected.

She chooses herself.

Not because the world was gentle,

But because she finally understands

She must be.

I wish I never looked behind the curtain,

never traced the cracks beneath the paint,

never noticed how smiles can become weapons

or how kindness is sometimes traded

like currency between hungry hands.

I miss the softness of not knowing.

The sweet little lies

that made the world feel warm at night.

Back then, the stars were just stars,

not distant fires burning themselves hollow.

There is a strange grief

in waking up.

Because once you see it—

the loneliness hidden in crowded rooms,

the cruelty dressed in polished shoes,

the hollow eyes of people

chasing pleasure to avoid themselves—

you cannot unsee it.

And yet...

between all the ruin,

there are still small rebellions of light.

A mother brushing hair from a tired child's face.

A stranger holding the door open.

A laugh so genuine

it cuts through the noise like sunlight through dust.

Maybe that is the tragedy of seeing clearly:

the world is horrifying

and beautiful at the same time.

The monsters are real,

but so are the people

who stay gentle despite them.

Some days I still wish

I had stayed blissfully unaware,

floating through life untouched,

never peeking behind the curtain.

But perhaps the ones who see the darkness

are also the ones

who learn how precious

even the smallest light can be.

Moonlight spilled across the room

turning your skin to silver and gold,

and I traced the outline of you

with slow admiration,

like an artist afraid to rush

a masterpiece.

The space between us

felt heavy with warmth,

with quiet longing,

with the kind of closeness

that makes the whole world

fade into silence.

Your touch lingered-

soft enough to calm every storm in me,

deep enough to make my heartbeat

forget its rhythm.

And when you pulled me closer,

there was nothing hurried about it,

only tenderness,

only stolen breaths and trembling smiles,

only two souls

learning each other carefully

in the glow of the dark.

You made affection feel sacred,

like every glance meant something,

like every gentle touch said,

I see you,

without needing any other words.

You have broken me—

are you happy now?

Was I just a quiet game

you played between moments,

something to touch

when the world grew dull?

I gave you my softness

with both hands open,

while you arrived

with minimal effort

and careless promises

hanging loosely from your lips.

I kept mistaking crumbs

for love.

Mistook silence

for safety.

Mistook your almost

for something real.

Tell me—

did you watch me unravel slowly

and feel powerful?

Did my aching heart

make you feel less empty

for a little while?

Because I stood there

trying to carry us both,

patching cracks you made

with trembling fingers,

while you barely lifted a hand

to keep me from falling.

And now there is this ruin

where trust used to live.

A hollow ache

echoing your name

through every quiet hour.

You have broken me—

but somewhere beneath the fractures

a small voice still whispers:

One day,

I will stop bleeding for people

who only know how to wound.

I’m never going to be

that girl you want—

the easy smile,

the soft voice that bends

into every shape you ask for.

I was never built

to live inside someone else’s dream,

never meant to shrink myself

until I fit neatly

between your boredom and your loneliness.

Maybe I was only ever

a passing light to you,

something warm enough

to hold for a while

until the night felt less empty.

A way to pass the time.

And I felt it

in the spaces between your words,

in the half-hearted promises,

in the way your eyes wandered

like they were always waiting

for something better to arrive.

Still, I stayed longer than I should have,

turning scraps into hope,

mistaking temporary hands

for something permanent.

But I am tired

of bleeding meaning

into moments

that were never meant to last.

So if I cannot be

the girl you imagined,

then let me be honest instead—

I am a storm of too much feeling,

a heart that wants depth

in a world addicted to distraction.

And I would rather stand alone

as myself

than become hollow

trying to be loved by you.

She wears a smile

like borrowed sunlight,

soft at the edges,

cracking where nobody looks.

The world loves her laughter,

the way she stitches comfort

into everyone else's wounds

while quietly bleeding through her own sleeves.

They call her strong

because she survives things

that would make others collapse,

but they never ask

what survival has cost her.

Hands reach for her

only when they need warmth,

a place to rest their sadness,

someone to carry the weight

they were never willing to hold themselves.

And every time she trusts,

another blade finds her back —

not sharp enough to kill,

just enough to remind her

how easily love can turn careless.

Still, she says,

“I'm okay.”

Still, she smiles

with trembling lips,

because somewhere along the way

she learned people prefer sunshine

over storms they might have to stand in.

But beneath the quiet ache

lives a girl growing tired

of being everyone's shelter

while standing alone in the rain.

One day,

she will stop shrinking herself

into something useful for others.

One day,

she will realize

she deserved care too —

not only for the comfort she gave,

but simply because she existed.

You say I’m too much—

too loud, too deep,

too full of feeling

for your paper-thin world.

But tell me—

when will enough ever exist

for a man who devours moments

like cigarettes in the rain?

You live somewhere hollow,

between just for fun

and the hunt for the next thrill,

collecting hearts like souvenirs

you never planned to keep.

Your laughter echoes strangely,

empty walls pretending to be a home.

Every touch temporary.

Every promise dissolving

before the sunrise can hold it.

You chase distraction

like it might outrun yourself,

running faster and faster

from the silence waiting underneath.

And still you call me too much

because I ask for something real—

a hand that stays,

eyes that do not wander,

love that does not vanish

the second it becomes difficult.

But I think the truth is this:

I was never too much.

You were simply too hollow

to hold anything honest

without it slipping through your fingers.

She wakes before the morning does,

while the sky is still soft with sleep,

moving quietly through the house

like warmth wrapped in human form.

She carries the world gently—

not because it is light,

but because her heart refuses

to let others carry it alone.

Her hands tell stories

of years spent giving:

buttoning coats, drying tears,

holding faces heavy with sorrow,

clapping the loudest at small victories

no one else thought to notice.

She remembers everyone’s favorite song,

how they take their tea,

the dates that matter,

the wounds they try to hide.

Yet when asked what she needs,

she only smiles

and says she is fine,

even when exhaustion sits quietly

behind her eyes.

A mother like this

is not simply loved—

she is woven into the bones

of the people she saves every day

without ever calling it sacrifice.

She is the kind of beautiful

that time cannot touch:

the beauty of patience,

of kindness given freely,

of love that asks for nothing back.

And if the world were fair,

someone would place the stars

gently into her tired hands

and say,

“Rest now.

You have given enough of yourself

to light the lives of everyone around you.”

Across a crowded, restless room,

your eyes found mine—

and suddenly the noise

fell somewhere far away.

It was not thunder,

not fireworks,

not some dramatic movie scene.

Just a quiet pull,

like the tide recognizing the moon.

You smiled softly,

and something in me answered

before I could think of words.

The air felt lighter around you,

warmer somehow,

like winter loosening its grip.

Every laugh became brighter

when it came from your mouth.

Every second stretched sweetly

when you stood close beside me.

There was a rhythm between us,

unspoken but certain—

two souls meeting in the middle

without fear,

without trying.

And for a little while,

the world stopped asking so much of me.

Because near you,

everything felt wonderful.

Like sunlight through open curtains.

Like music drifting through summer windows.

Like finding a place

you did not know your heart

had been searching for.

I could speak about your eyes for hours—

the way they sparkle

when excitement catches hold of you,

or when you look upon

something

or someone

you love.

The gentle lines that appear

when you smile or laugh,

like happiness itself

has learned your face by heart.

The worried look in your eyes

when the world turns unkind,

soft concern resting there

so naturally.

The wide surprise in them too,

filled with bright glee,

as if wonder still lives freely

inside you.

Your eyes are a wonderland

I could lose myself within for hours.

I was once told

the eyes are the keyhole to the soul,

and my love,

I think perhaps

I have found the key.

He lives where the light forgets to reach,

in the cracks between silence and breath.

A shadow stitched to my footsteps,

always there—

never seen long enough

to prove he’s real.

The walls whisper his name at night.

My phone glows like a warning wound.

Every street bends back toward him,

every stranger’s glance

feels borrowed from his eyes.

He moves pieces without touching them.

A puppeteer hidden behind black curtains,

pulling strings through guilt,

through fear,

through the small fractures

inside a tired mind.

He knows how to sound gentle.

That is the worst part.

Monsters with fangs are easy to flee from—

but his voice arrives soft as rain,

curling around my throat

like smoke.

He watches from the edges of things:

dark windows, empty car parks,

the hollow reflection staring back

from mirrors after midnight.

I feel him there

even when the world swears I’m alone.

And slowly,

he tries to erase me.

Not all at once—

that would be mercy.

Instead,

he steals little pieces:

my sleep,

my laughter,

the safety of turning a corner

without my heart collapsing into panic.

But somewhere beneath the ruin,

beneath the fear he planted like thorns,

a small fire still survives.

Because shadows only exist

where light is trying to live.

I miss you

like the tide misses the moon—

not in sorrow,

but in a quiet, constant pull

that never really leaves.

There are moments

where something in me shifts,

a tender loosening,

like old cracks learning

how to soften at the edges.

I feel you

in the in-between spaces—

in the hush of morning light,

in the warmth that lingers

long after the sun has moved on.

Nothing in me is truly broken,

just gently rearranged

by the shape of loving you,

by the echo you left behind

that still feels like home.

Even now,

my breath steadies around the thought of you,

as if my body remembers

how to be whole

in its own quiet way.

And maybe missing you

isn’t an ending at all,

but a soft thread—

stretching across the distance,

holding what was

with what still is.

We call it love,

but it feels like a game

where the rules keep changing

and I’m always the one losing.

You smile like you’ve won something

I didn’t know we were fighting for.

Your kindness comes in flashes—

lightning without the rain to follow.

I trace the pattern of your chaos,

trying to make meaning out of maybes,

turning your almosts into promises

you never meant to keep.

I don’t know if you will ever change,

or am I the one

who should stop looking for the good

in something that keeps cutting me down?

Because loving you

feels like holding glass—

beautiful in the light,

but it never forgets how to break me.

And still, I stand here,

hands open,

wondering if this time

you’ll choose to be gentle.

Or if I’ll finally learn

that love

was never meant

to feel like this.

They wear skin like borrowed clothing,

stitched smiles pulled too tight,

eyes like empty rooms

with the lights left on.

You see through them—

that’s the first mistake.

Because they see you too,

and they don’t like what glows.

There’s a hunger in the hollow,

a quiet, clicking need—

not to feel,

but to take.

They gather close,

soft voices, careful hands,

telling you how bright you are

while mapping out the dimmer switch.

“Let us hold it,” they whisper,

“you don’t know how to carry that kind of light.”

And their fingers—

cold, weightless—

trace the outline of your soul

like it’s something detachable.

They don’t bleed.

They don’t break.

They only mirror what you give

until there’s nothing left to reflect.

And still they smile—

those thin, painted mouths—

as they wind the key in your back,

slow, deliberate, precise.

A toy that used to burn like a star

now flickers on command.

And somewhere inside the hollow,

your light learns to hide—

not gone,

just buried deep enough

they can’t reach it

without finally

facing their own darkness.

She misplaced herself in quiet ways—

not all at once,

but in small permissions:

a silenced opinion here,

a swallowed ache there,

until her name felt foreign in her own mouth.

Mirrors stopped answering honestly.

They showed a shape, a face—

but not the fire that used to live behind her eyes.

She moved like a ghost of good intentions,

soft, agreeable,

fading at the edges of other people’s stories.

They mistook her stillness for weakness.

They mistook her kindness for surrender.

They did not hear the slow drum

building beneath her ribs.

Because something ancient was waking—

not loud at first,

just a flicker,

a refusal to disappear any further.

It began in her spine,

a straightening.

In her voice,

a word that did not apologize.

In her hands,

a tremble that chose not to let go.

She started gathering herself back—

every forgotten piece,

every dismissed dream,

every version of her they told her to bury.

And when she stood again,

she was not who she had been.

She was sharper.

Quieter in a different way—

not empty,

but deliberate.

A warrior, not born in battle,

but forged in absence.

In the long ache of being unseen.

In the moment she decided

she would not abandon herself again.

Now when she walks,

the world feels it shift—

not because she is loud,

but because she is certain.

She does not fight for destruction.

She fights for her name,

for her voice,

for the right to exist without shrinking.

She remembers now.

And that is the most dangerous thing of all.

You think you can play games with me because we've played them so many times before. We're not going to do the same thing anymore. I'm not giving up this time so either leave me the f*** alone or move on, wrong bitch...

They wear a face that passes—

pleasant enough,

forgettably kind.

But it’s only a mask

stitched tight over a vacancy

that breathes nothing back.

Inside is not chaos—

that would be something.

Inside is a stillness so complete

it devours its own echo.

No guilt.

No warmth.

No flicker of anything

that could be called alive.

So they press against the world

just to feel resistance.

A word sharpened at the edge,

a moment twisted just enough—

watching for the flinch,

the fracture,

the small collapse in someone’s eyes.

Not for joy.

They’re past that.

Only to measure

that something still breaks

when they touch it.

But every crack they make

closes behind them,

and the silence comes back heavier—

thick, suffocating,

like sinking into deep water

where even their own name

won’t follow.

There is no satisfaction.

Only the growing certainty

that they are not a storm,

not a villain,

not even a wound—

just a void

that learned how to move

and mistook destruction

for proof of existence.

And in the end,

there is nothing waiting for them—

no reckoning,

no release,

just the same black quiet

stretching on,

unbroken.

One side is sunlight.

Soft hands, steady voice,

the kind of person people point to and say,

that’s what good looks like.

The hero in every story told out loud,

the one who knows exactly how to hold her

when the world gets too heavy.

But the other side—

it doesn’t announce itself.

It slips in quietly,

wearing the same face,

the same smile that once felt like home.

This version watches.

Waits.

Finds the cracks in her voice

and presses.

Not always loud—

sometimes it’s softer than kindness,

a careful kind of cruel

that makes her question her own reflection.

And the worst part?

The smile never changes.

It stays warm,

convincing,

even when the words turn sharp,

even when her chest tightens

and she forgets what safe is supposed to feel like.

So she lives between versions—

loving the light,

enduring the dark,

telling herself they are the same person

because they have to be.

Because love isn’t meant to hurt like this…

is it?

And still, she stays,

holding onto the half

that feels like home,

while the other half

quietly teaches her

what it means to disappear

without ever leaving.

No one told her

the world had a seam—

a fine, invisible thread

holding the illusion together.

She found it by accident,

fingertips catching on truth

like a loose stitch

in a favourite dress.

And when it pulled,

everything followed.

The laughter sounded thinner,

like glass about to crack.

Kindness came with conditions

written in ink you couldn’t quite see

until it was too late.

She started noticing things—

how eyes slide past each other,

how “I’m here”

often means “until it’s inconvenient,”

how love can feel

like a transaction dressed as a promise.

The sky didn’t change,

but it felt further away.

Even the sun seemed colder,

like it shone out of habit

instead of care.

She missed the not-knowing—

the softness of believing

people meant what they said,

that safety was something

you could hold in your hands.

Now everything was sharper.

Edges where there used to be curves.

Silence where there used to be songs.

But still—

in the quiet she doesn’t talk about,

she keeps a small defiance:

the way she still notices

the rare, unguarded smile,

the moments that don’t ask for anything back,

the warmth that slips through

without permission.

Because even with the veil gone,

and the cold laid bare—

she hasn’t stopped looking

for something real

to prove it isn’t all empty.