I think it's funny, isn't it? how everyone sees a different version of you, like you're a story told in pieces, and each person only reads the pages they want. Maybe to some, you're quiet and gentle, someone who listens more than speaks; maybe to others, you're bold or chaotic, a spark that makes them laugh or feel alive. Some see your kindness, your patience, your courage; maybe others only see your impatience, your stubbornness, the walls you put up. Maybe some call you brave, maybe some call you reckless. Some notice your strength, some notice your weakness; some admire, some criticize. Maybe your small mistakes leave marks that linger, while the moments you care quietly disappear in memory. Maybe all of it is both right and wrong, because no one ever meets the whole of you, only glimpses reflected through their own lens. Somewhere beneath it all, maybe there's a version, messy and tender, strong and fragile, quietly waiting to be known not as a collection of versions, but as you.