May 31, 2025
"Do you say what you really feel,
or just what you think will be accepted?"*
When he was seven, he made his teacher laugh. Not because he was funny. He just knew what made her smile.
It became a skill.
A superpower.
He could read a room like other kids read comic books.
By fifteen, he'd mastered it—saying exactly what people wanted to hear, just enough truth to sound honest, just enough charm to stay loved. He made friends easily. Teachers adored him. Parents called him "mature."
No one noticed he never really said anything.
Now he's thirty-four, standing in a kitchen he doesn't recognise, holding a wine glass at a party he didn't want to attend, nodding politely as someone explains the difference between Sardinian and Tuscan olive oil.
He smiles. Says, "That's fascinating."
It's not.
But it sounds like something a pleasant person would say. And that's the job.
He doesn't remember when it became a job.
The woman beside him, a friend-of-a-friend, says, "You're easy to talk to."
He says thank you. What he doesn't say is:
No one really knows me. Including me.
She keeps talking. Something about work, maybe her boss. He listens, nods at the right places. Drops a half-smile when she makes a joke that isn't really funny.
Then it happens—quietly.
She says, "You're so… emotionally intelligent.
Like, you really get people."
He hears himself say, "You are so kind!"
+ fake smile
But inside something tightens.
Because it's true. He does get people. Their tones, their faces, their fears. He can tell when someone's about to interrupt, when they're craving attention, when they're quietly checking for approval.
What he can't tell—what he's never quite figured out—is what he feels.
He used to think it was selflessness. Adarsh Balak Syndrome BC.
Now he's not so sure.
A man walks past holding a tray of empty glasses. He reaches out, places his own glass on it without thinking. The woman is still talking.
He interrupts her—not rudely, but just enough.
"Do you ever feel like you've spent your whole life being agreeable just so no one would leave?"
She pauses. Not offended. Just surprised.
"I mean," he continues, "not because you're nice. But because… deep down, you're afraid if you ever said what you really thought, people would decide you weren't worth the trouble."
The words hang there. Not bitter. Just… exposed.
He's never said that out loud before. Not even to himself.
She blinks. Then says, carefully, "That's… kind of dark."
He nods. "It is."
She doesn't respond. Just stares at him for a beat too long. Then her phone buzzes. She glances at it, says she should go find her friend, and slips into the crowd.
He watches her leave.
For a moment, he wonders if he made a mistake—if he ruined something by being too much. Too honest. Not smooth.
But then the strangest thing happens: he feels okay. Not good. Not proud. Just… intact.
Whole, in a small, quiet way.
He's home. In bed.
Lights off except for the glow of his screen.
He does what he always does—scrolls through Instagram, checks WhatsApp. The rhythm is muscle memory now. Like shagging, but more social.
He opens his Drafts folder without thinking.
There are a dozen half-written messages. All perfectly polite. All emotionally neutral.
One reads:
"Hey, all good—no worries at all."
Another:
"Just me overthinking lol. Ignore me haha."
He scrolls through them. They're all the same shape:
Real feeling, followed by a politeness edit.
Then he sets the phone down, screen still lit, and closes his eyes.
No self-audit. No rewrites.
Just sleep.
And for once, it feels earned.
He sees it now. Every draft is a version of himself smoothing the truth to keep things comfortable.
He deletes them.
All of them.
One by one. Slowly. Like peeling something off his skin.
Then, almost without thinking, he opens a fresh message. Types fast, doesn't overthink.
"You talk too much and your olive oil takes are trash."
He hits send.
Grins.
Not because it's brave. But because it's his.
The End.
Now pour a drink and say what you really feel.
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