I am a hypocrite.
I hate being known, and yet, here I am, writing down my feelings and posting it on the internet. I hate being vulnerable, and yet I try to find ways to reach out.
I try to keep myself enclosed, like the water inside a faucet.
But random people always seem to remember the little things about me. The smallest habits, the quiet quirks. Things I never meant to showcase, things I thought I had hidden well.
Because for years, I’ve spent trying to make myself smaller. And at some point, it just felt safer that way.
As a kid, my family would call me names. I was the “croaking frog” because I once didn’t reach a high note while singing on the karaoke during a family gathering. They always doubted when I proudly talked about getting an award, or even just something I enjoy doing.
In high school, I was called “stick” when I didn’t dance smoothly as the others. They called me more names when I didn’t dress the same way as them, or had the same interests. #Youcantsitwithus.
Eventually, I started hiding them. Not out of shame at first — just out of exhaustion. I got tired of defending myself for simply being who I was. So I adjusted. I stopped dancing in public. I stopped singing unless I was alone. I stopped sharing things I loved unless I was absolutely sure it was safe.
And it worked, for a while. No more weird looks. No more laughs. No more silent judgments. But then it started to go deeper. I wasn’t just hiding the things I loved, I was hiding myself. I began to live like a shadow of the person I used to be, always a few steps behind, always fading into the background.
When I started getting close to people again, I didn’t really show up as me. I showed up as someone easy to be with.
I was someone who nodded along, someone who adjusted, someone who liked what they liked, felt what they felt, even when it contradicted what I wanted or needed. I curated an image of myself that everyone would love, that everyone would adore, all because I wanted to finally fit in with anyone else.
I convinced myself it was okay. That it was better to go unnoticed than to risk being too much again. It felt safer to let go of myself than to be rejected for holding on.
But then something happened that I didn’t expect.
Some people noticed me anyway.
Not the Korean dramas or teleseryes kind of way. Just… in the quiet ways. They remembered how I liked clinging to someone’s arm when we walked down the street. They noticed I buy mangoes when I’m sad. That I sing softly when I think no one’s listening. That I dance when I need to get something out of my chest. That this specific meal is my go-to-order at Jollibee. That I like playing Go Fish at arcades like I’m still a kid chasing joy.
And they didn’t make a big deal out of it. They didn’t tease or laugh or call me weird. They just remembered. Like it was natural. Like those parts of me weren’t strange — they were mine, and worth holding onto.
And that surprised me.
It felt good, in a weird way. Not the kind that makes your heart jump in adrenaline, but the kind that settles in your chest like warmth. Like, oh… you see me.
I didn’t have to perform. I didn’t even have to explain. I was just there, and that was enough.
Until now, I still hide myself. I hide in anonymity, in the little traces of my writing, in the bubble that I hope people don’t people, or like the water the seeps through the faucet.
Yet even a tightly closed faucet leaks sometimes — and maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Maybe I haven’t completely disappeared after all.
