92 - The Only People Who Knew the Real Me

It comes all of a sudden.

Messages from classmates I haven’t spoken to in more than twenty years.

People from a life I buried.

People from a version of me I can barely remember without hurting.

I cut ties with everyone after my downfall 

more than two decades ago now.

I thought disappearing would give me peace.

It didn’t.

It only gave me loneliness.

A long, quiet loneliness that settled into my bones

until I stopped noticing it.

But they found me anyway.

A class reunion, a few names passed around,

my name came up and someone searched through social media 

and suddenly they were all there,

asking where I’ve been,

asking if I’m okay,

asking if I want to see them again.

Telling me that they want to see me again

And it didn’t make me happy.

It didn’t make me excited.

It made something inside me collapse.

It reminded me of a life I lost,

a life I thought time had erased.

Because back then…

we were carefree.

Just friends.

Real friends.

Not tied to money,

not tied to benefits,

not tied to trade‑offs or adult calculations.

We got into trouble together.

Did stupid things.

Laughed at nothing.

Stayed out too late.

Made promises we thought would last forever.

We lived like the world was wide open

and nothing could break us.

I wasn’t scared to call people by their name.

I wasn’t scared to get close.

I wasn’t scared of disappointment.

I wasn’t scared of myself.

It was the only chapter in my life

where I was living,

not surviving.

Their messages hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Made me want to go back to my country,

the place I once called home.

Made me want to throw away everything I built here

and return to the version of me

that existed before the mask.

And somehow,

instead of making me feel less lonely,

it made me feel even more alone.

Because now I remember what it felt like

to not be this way.

To not be hollowed out by distance and time.

To not be scared of trusting others

To not be scared of trusting myself

But I can’t go back.

Not yet.

Not because I’m ashamed 

I’ve carried that weight long enough.

But because the me I am now

is not the me they remember.

Not the me I can show them.

If I went back now,

I would have to wear a mask.

And if I wear a mask,

they become just another group of acquaintances.

And I can’t let that happen.

They are the only people who knew me

before the mask,

before the downfall,

before the loneliness.

They are the only ones who remember the version of me

that was alive.

I can’t lose that.

I can’t overwrite it with who I am now.

So I will endure this sadness,

this distance,

this ache of wanting to go back

but not being able to.

I need to regain even a portion of the self they knew 

the self I want to be again,

the self I lost somewhere along the way.

Only then can I stand in front of them

without hiding,

without pretending,

without the mask.

If that day ever comes,

we will meet again.

Until then,

goodbye, my friends.