Through my whole nineteen years of living, I’ve always felt misunderstood. Even at the littlest and stupidest thing. Sometimes it happens when I gave all of me to someone yet they don’t show enough appreciation. Sometimes it happens when I put so much interest yet they don’t pay me back. I told myself that I grew over it but nonetheless I still feel so much hurt inside.

I believe I am always sincere at everything I do. As long as people I love are happy, I convince myself that I should be okay. But at times when I am alone while staring at the ceiling, I crave something deeper than just the contentment at the thoughts that people I love are happy. I want to be happy, too. I desire connections that can make me feel whole and fulfilled.

I feel like I am over-reacting and that my sensitiveness are just a pushover traits of mine, but I swear I can’t get rid of it, no matter how much I try. I keep reminding myself that the world is so much cruel than all the beauty I imagine in my head and that I should hang to no one but myself. But my heart feels so much pain enduring the longingness of satisfaction I can never get.

My days are spent waiting and longing for that ‘happiness’. It could be from someone, or something — or even anything. But I keep asking what if that day would not came? What if I die still feeling stuck and empty? What if the happiness on my mind isn’t promised no matter how long I keep waiting?



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