It’s not just about being liked.
It’s not just about being treated kindly.
It’s about the haunting silence that says:

“Even if I’m here, I don’t know if it matters.”
“Even if they love me, I don’t know if I can let it in.”
“Even when someone shows me care I feel like a burden for receiving it.”
“I feel like I should leave before they realize I don’t belong.”



And that… that is what happens to people who were never loved in a way that felt safe. It’s not that no one ever cared. It’s that you were never given permission to trust that care. And so you built this quiet survival rule inside yourself:

“Don’t expect love to stay. Don’t lean too ******* being wanted. Just be good, be funny, be useful and maybe that’ll be enough.”



But it’s never enough, is it?

Because all you really wanted maybe all you still want—is to feel like your presence means something. Not because you earned it. But because you are you.

White Sheet

Each day grows harder to bear,
though I still have fight in me—
it flickers,
like a candle shrinking in wind.

I wake with heaviness,
and sleep with silence.
And every hour,
some small part of me
gets quietly erased.

I feel it.
Tiny things vanishing—
hope,
desire,
love—
like words smudged off a page
no one ever finished reading.

Soon,
I fear,
I'll be nothing but
an empty white canvas.
Not fresh.
Just forgotten.

A lonely sheet of paper,
left on a quiet desk,
weeping in silence
because no one ever wrote their name
across its heart.
No one ever cared to read the lines
that once tried to form.

And maybe that’s what I’m afraid of—
not being alone,
but being unread.
Unnoticed.
Undone.
Slowly fading
until there's nothing left
but the silence
of a story
never told.

And when I'm gone,
they’ll only see
the blankness—
never knowing
how much was written there
before it faded.

A white sheet.
Still.
Silent.
Crying for someone
to see it
before it's gone.