Chapter Text
I’m not sure when I stopped being her.
The girl with the messy hair and loud laugh.
The one who jumped into ponds and got dirt under her nails.
Now, I’m just… a shape.
A shape that looks like Anne.
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Sometimes, I feel like I’m watching from far away.
Like my body is a puppet.
I don’t always know who’s holding the strings.
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The memories come in pieces.
Not whole stories.
Fragments.
Broken glass reflections.
I remember a river. Cold.
I remember a fire. Bright.
I remember a face.
But is it mine?
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They say I changed.
I say I’m still the same.
But maybe the same is a lie.
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At night, when the house is quiet, I hear them.
Whispers.
Echoes.
Shadows crawling along the walls.
I try to cover my ears.
But the noise is inside.
It never stops.
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I want to scream.
But the sound doesn’t come.
Just silence.
Deep, empty silence.
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They ask me to remember.
My parents.
The therapist.
The world.
I try.
I try to pull the pieces together.
But the puzzle keeps shifting.
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Sometimes, I sit under the banyan tree.
Its roots tangled like my thoughts.
I watch the leaves fall.
Waiting for something.
Or someone.
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I don’t know who I’m waiting for.
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Sometimes I think I’m still there.
In Amphibia.
With frogs and strange skies.
With Sasha and Marcy.
But that place isn’t home anymore.
Not really.
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I’m afraid of coming back.
Afraid of what I’ll see.
Afraid of who I’ll be.
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I look in the mirror.
A stranger stares back.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just… tired.
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I used to love mangoes.
Now, the smell makes me nauseous.
I used to draw birds everywhere.
Now, I can’t pick up a pencil.
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I feel like I’m disappearing.
Piece by piece.
Like smoke.
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They want me to be *her* again.
The girl they lost.
But I’m not her.
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Sometimes, I think maybe she’s gone.
Maybe I’m just a visitor in her skin.
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They say healing takes time.
I’m not sure I have that much.
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I’m tired of pretending.
Tired of being quiet.
Tired of being still.
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I want to run.
But I don’t know where.
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I want to forget.
But I can’t.
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Sometimes, I write notes.
Little scraps of paper.
Things I want to say but can’t.
They sit on my desk.
Unread.
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I don’t know if I’m afraid of coming home,
or of leaving it behind.
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I see my parents watching me.
Waiting. Hoping.
But I feel like a ghost.
Drifting through their lives.
Invisible and untouchable.
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I want to tell them:
*I’m here.*
*But I’m not.*
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I wonder if they see me at all.
Or just the idea of me.
The girl they remember.
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I’m tired of being the girl in their memories.
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I’m tired of being the girl they want me to be.
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Maybe I’m already gone.
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*This is what you wanted.*
The girl who survived,
but wasn’t the same.
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I don’t know if that’s enough.
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I don’t know if it ever will be.