I used to care like it would save them. Every look. Every word. Every silence. I tried to decode it all — to protect the people who were quietly killing my soul. What did it do to me? It broke me. Not with screams. But with silence. With invisible wars no one saw, and no one helped me fight.

 

Caring too much made me the scapegoat, the emotional punching bag. I carried the wounds of others as if they were mine. And they let me. They watched me drown in their darkness, smiling as they stayed dry. ​I lost my body. I lost my health. I lost years trying to fix broken people who only wanted someone to suffer with them. Caring too much made me easy to manipulate, easy to shame, easy to discard.​

 

Until one day, I died inside. And something else rose up. A cold stillness. A silence that didn’t need approval. A fire that didn’t explain itself. Now I walk alone — not because I hate people. But because I finally love myself. I don’t chase. I don’t explain. I don’t wait to be seen. If you want to feel me, sit in the silence long enough to see who’s still there. I used to care too much. Now I care just enough to stay alive, stay awake, and build my empire from what they tried to bury.