I’ve tried to be softer, sharper, quieter, louder. I've made myself smaller, then filled every room, wore silence like armor, then bloomed just to bloom. I’ve twisted my truth to sound more like theirs, lost in the silence of what I used to be, chasing reflections that vanish in the mist, and feeling the pieces of me slip through the cracks. I’ve tried to mend the fragments with threads of hope, but the fabric still feels torn, and in the quiet, I realize the hardest truth: I’ve been searching for myself in every other face. How can I be your bestfriend...