baibelle

[baibelle]

The idea of me - Part 2: The Mean One (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1498464435-the-idea-of-me-part-2-the-mean-one?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=Bai_Belle They see me as strong, intelligent, and perfect. But what if I told you that's just the surface? Beneath the polished exterior lies someone clumsy, emotionally disconnected, and achingly human. This is the story of how I navigate the gap between who I truly am and the curated version of me that the world refuses to let go of. In a series of daily reflections, I peel back the layers of perception, loneliness, and self-discovery. Because sometimes, the hardest person to know is yourself.

[baibelle]

The idea of me - Part 1: Lonely in a Crowd (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1498231025-the-idea-of-me-part-1-lonely-in-a-crowd?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=Bai_Belle They see me as strong, intelligent, and perfect. But what if I told you that's just the surface? Beneath the polished exterior lies someone clumsy, emotionally disconnected, and achingly human. This is the story of how I navigate the gap between who I truly am and the curated version of me that the world refuses to let go of. In a series of daily reflections, I peel back the layers of perception, loneliness, and self-discovery. Because sometimes, the hardest person to know is yourself.

[baibelle]

The Idea of Me

Chapter 1: Lonely in a Crowd

"I wonder if, after I die, you’ll remember me. Not the me everyone thinks they know, but the me you truly understood. The one who’s clumsy, soft, and painfully human. Because for most people, I am a mirage—a creation of their minds, strong, intelligent, and perfect. But perfection is a lonely place to be when it isn’t real."

I had this conversation with a friend today. I told her I hoped she’d never forget me, that I’d always be one of the most important people in her life. She asked why her, and it made me think about how rare it is to feel seen. Most people don’t know me—not really. They see me through a lens that erases my flaws and vulnerabilities, painting a picture of someone who doesn’t exist.

Yes, I’m intelligent. But I’m also probably the weakest person I know. And yet, people refuse to accept those parts of me. They don’t want the me who’s clumsy, who’s a baby about the smallest things, or who often feels so lonely that even a crowded room feels empty.

I’ve always been drawn to solitude, but it’s a bittersweet companion. I like being by myself, yet there’s an ache in my chest that never quite leaves—a sense of disconnection from everyone around me, even my family. And the strangest things bring it to the surface. Like when I’m talking to someone, and they don’t look into my eyes. It’s a small thing, but it makes me feel invisible, like I’m speaking to a wall.

I’m not patient. I have a low tolerance for most things, probably because I never leave my house. Social situations drain me, but people don’t see that. They see a polite, classy, sweet person, and I don’t know how to escape the box they’ve put me in.

Even the things I love—the quirks and hobbies that make me, me—get dismissed as “cute” or “adorable.” No one ever says they’re weird, but I know they think it. And I know they’re not in love with me. They’re in love with the idea of me.

And that’s the loneliest part of all.