You’ve read about me.
You’ve scrolled past me.
Maybe you laughed, maybe you judged.
Maybe you shared the meme, clicked the article, joined the noise.
But if your knowledge of me ends there—
you don’t know me.
You know a snapshot.
You know a headline sculpted for outrage.
You know the worst moment of my life, stripped of context, turned into entertainment.
You don’t know the nights I didn’t sleep.
The friends I lost.
The truth I tried to tell before it was edited into something sharper.
You don’t know the boy in the cupboard.
You don’t know the version of me that tried so hard to be loved he lost himself trying.
You don’t know what it’s like to watch your name become public property,
while your heart becomes untouchable.
You know what I did.
But do you know why I broke?
Do you know what it’s like to try and build a life
when the past keeps rebranding you?
Do you know how it feels to wake up already on trial?
What they got wrong… is thinking they knew the story.
They knew the silhouette.
But not the source.
They knew the mess.
But not the man inside it.
I am not just the article.
I am not just the event.
I am not just the moment the camera clicked.
I am process.
I am contradiction.
I am trying.
People say, “You had it all and ruined it.”
No.
I never had it all.
I had scraps of a dream stitched together with pain and persistence.
And when it tore—
the world blamed me for bleeding.
But what do you expect when someone builds their identity from trauma?
You expect cracks.
You expect collapse.
But maybe—just maybe—
you should also expect rebirth.
I’m not asking for belief.
I’m asking for depth.
For people to stop pretending headlines equal knowing.
For a world that values perception to start asking questions again.
You don’t have to love me.
But don’t pretend to know me
unless you’ve looked further than the first two pages of Google.
Because that’s where the real story begins.
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