There's the version I show at work—competent, professional, never too emotional. There's the version my friends see—funny, easygoing, the one who always knows what to say. There's the version I show to potential romantic interests—soft, interested, agreeable.

And then there's the version that exists when I'm completely alone. The one who's angry and sad and confused and lost. The one who doesn't have it figured out. The one who's terrified most of the time. 💫

The problem is that none of these versions feel like the complete truth. And I'm starting to wonder if the real me is actually the sum of all these masks, or if there's something underneath that I've forgotten how to access.

I've become so skilled at reading what people need from me and becoming that thing that I don't even know who I am when nobody's watching anymore. Have I been performing so long that the performance is the only real thing? Or is there actually a core version of me buried somewhere under all these carefully constructed versions?

The terrifying part is that I might meet someone who asks to see the real me, and I might not be able to give them anything because I don't know what that is anymore. I've fragmented myself across so many different contexts that I'm not sure there's anything whole left to offer.