What u need to hear (for the weak)

Oh your the quite kid?

You don’t just hide in silence—you’ve married it. Made it your whole personality because actually saying something might reveal the truth: you have nothing to say. You’re so scared of confrontation, you’d rather silently rot than face even a flicker of discomfort. You call yourself quiet, but you’re just a coward pretending to be deep. You pretend you’re observant and thoughtful, but really? You’re emotionally constipated with a superiority complex. The worst kind of hollow.

You’re not a mystery.

You’re not a riddle.

You’re just a story no one cared enough to finish.

You like it

You like being the misunderstood loner.

You like feeling like the world did you wrong.

Because it gives you an excuse to stay exactly where you are: broken, bitter, and doing absolutely nothing about it.

You crave love, validation, attention—but you’re so pathetically terrified of rejection, you sabotage everything before it even starts. You’re not complex. You’re just scared and emotionally constipated.

And your personality? Please. What personality? You’ve built your entire identity around aesthetic misery, overthinking, and emotional cowardice. You don’t speak up because you know the second you do, the facade crumbles. You don’t express yourself because deep down, you know there’s nothing inside worth hearing

To scared to grow ,

too fake to be real

You cling to this broken, bitter self-image because fixing it would take effort. And you don’t want effort.

You want aesthetic pain. You want to be the shattered mirror people stop to admire, not realizing there’s nothing behind the glass except excuses and insecurity

you are completely average, no hidden brilliance, no secret depth, no untapped genius waiting to be discovered. Just another indecisive, insecure kid convincing themselves they’re above it all while doing absolutely nothing to prove otherwise.

You don’t live,

you loiter—in your head,

You are in a self manufactured prison that you’re too weak to crawl out of.

And here’s the part you can’t handle:

You like it here.

Because in here, you don’t have to try. You don’t have to fail. You can convince yourself you’re special, without ever having to prove it.

But you’re not special. You never were.

That pain you think sets you apart?

It’s not unique.

It’s not profound.

It’s just the same recycled, self-inflicted pity party everyone else went through—only they grew out of it.

But you? You’re still bathing in it, calling it your identity.

You are not misunderstood. You’re just boring.

You are not deep. You’re dull.

You are not broken in some beautiful, poetic way. You’re just lazy and avoidant, because being real means being seen—and you already know what people will see: nothing worth remembering.

You think you’ve hit rock bottom?

No.

You built a basement under rock bottom, moved in, and called it home.

And until you burn that version of yourself to ash, you’ll stay there.

Rotting in a room full of mirrors, admiring your own decay.

That version of you feared everything—judgment, failure, effort, being known—so they stayed small and called it peace. They mistook passivity for wisdom and loneliness for power

you were never special for being broken. You are only special if you rebuild yourself into something that isn’t a fking parody of sadness

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