The Person You Buried

There are versions of you that no longer exist.

Not because time passed — but because you had to kill them to survive.

The trusting version.
The naive version.
The version that believed effort always meant something.

They didn’t disappear all at once. They faded slowly, replaced by someone quieter, harder to read, harder to break.

People call it “growing up.”
But it feels more like erosion.

You laugh less loudly.
You hesitate more often.
You see through things you once believed in.

And sometimes, late at night, you wonder if strength is just another word for damage that learned how to function.

Because becoming stronger rarely feels heroic.
It feels like losing softness piece by piece.

Still — the world keeps moving, and so do you.

Not the same person.
Not the same heart.
But still breathing.

And sometimes, survival is the only victory you get.