I think I’ve spent most of my life trying not to scare people away. Not by being cruel or unkind, but by being Loud. Real. Alive in all the wrong ways.

I say what I feel. I ask too many questions. I care too deeply and too fast. And somewhere along the way, that became a flaw.

Freshman year, he said I didn’t have friends because I was a bitch. And I laughed it off but took it with me like a scar I didn’t know I’d keep. Ten years later, I still wonder if he was right.

I wonder if people leave because I give too much of myself too soon, too honest, too loudly and maybe no one really wants that.

My mother told me to speak up, to never silence myself for the comfort of others. But she didn’t warn me how lonely that would feel. Because the world doesn’t know what to do with a girl who doesn’t flinch when silence stretches and tension thickens. They want small. They want agreeable. They want a quiet “okay” instead of a loud “why?”

So I tried it. I played small. But my tongue smiled through empty conversations and nodded when I wanted to scream. And for what? To sit in rooms full of people who didn’t really see me, just the watered-down version they found easier to love?

That’s not love. That’s convenience.

And still, I keep hoping someone will stay after the first sharp truth after the too-long eye contact after the moment I stop performing and just exist.

I want someone who doesn’t panic when I speak with fire or cry without apology. Someone who doesn’t need me to be less to feel like enough.

I don’t know if that person exists. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling like I have to earn my right to just be. But I know this — shrinking hurts worse than solitude. And I’m tired of apologizing for the sound of my voice.

I’ll go ahead and let them leave. I’ll keep the door open for someone who stays without needing me to disappear.