𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚔: 𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 // 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊

[echo]

A place to store random writings... Possible NSFW content... be advised. ​

 

[echo]

​ She speaks in riddles, laces truths with velvet lies, paints herself in poise so practised it gleams like armour polished daily. But her eyes— her eyes are the only thing honest. And they flicker, like a candle near its end. She hides. Behind wit sharp enough to wound, behind a smile too perfect to be anything but a mask. She hides, because to be seen is to be known— and to be known is to be shattered. There is a hunger in her that terrifies her more than hunger itself. A longing so primal, it claws at her ribcage when the lights go out. But she will not open the door. She will not let the wild thing free. Instead, she gulps for air in rooms that feel like coffins. Her chest, a battlefield of silenced screams, her breath, a rope around her throat that tightens every time she whispers "I'm fine." No one sees her fracture. But she does. When the world is turned away, she allows a single crack— just one— a silent tremble in the stillness. Then she gathers herself back up, wraps the costume tight again, and smiles like sin. She is tired. So tired. Each day, a climb up the same cliff with a fraying rope, and hands that bleed from holding on. Each day, she wonders what it might feel like to just let go. Would they miss her? Would they feel the shift in the air where she used to stand? Or would she vanish as quietly as she lived? She does not know. And that not-knowing is its own kind of death.​

 

[echo]

She watched them from the sidelines—pale imitations draped in her colours, wearing her skin like it was theirs to claim. They mimicked her walk, stole her words, watered down her fire and called it brilliance. And the world? The world clapped. Flocked like crows to a corpse, mistaking rot for beauty because it smiled sweetly and told them what they wanted to hear.

She let out a bitter laugh, one that caught in her throat and tasted like salt and smoke. It wasn't funny—not really. But what else was left? They wanted the echo, not the source. The copy, not the creation. And maybe—just maybe—that was her fault. Maybe she should have dulled her edges, worn a prettier mask, learned how to bend like they did.

But she didn't. She couldn't. She knew her worth. Knew she was so much more than them. A thousand times brighter, deeper, realer. And yet, it didn't matter. They chose the fakes. Every time.

And there she sat, in the shadows that felt more like home with each passing day. Watching. Wounded. Wondering if the world would ever see her. Not everyone. Just someone. Just one. But no one looked. No one ever looked.

Her heart cracked again in the silence—loud and sharp like a scream no one heard. And the ache of it, the weight of always being unseen, of being too much or not enough, pressed on her lungs until breathing felt like a chore.

Maybe they were right. Maybe she wasn't enough. Maybe she should just… walk away. Let them have their plastic queens and sugar-coated lies. Let the spotlight rot in their palms.

The darkness waited—cool, quiet, honest. There, at least, she didn't have to pretend. There, the pain wouldn't echo so loud in her ribs. Maybe the end wasn't a tragedy after all. Maybe it was a release.

She was tired. So tired. And all she'd ever wanted was to be seen—not loved by the masses, not worshipped. Just seen. By someone. Anyone.

But no one cared to look.
No one ever does.