There’s a version of me that folds laundry at 11 PM, barefoot, exhausted, whispering curses at mismatched socks and wondering if this is what adulthood was supposed to feel like.

She loves her child fiercely. She checks homework. She refills the snacks. She answers emails with “Per my last message,” and signs field trip permission slips half-asleep, pen barely touching the paper.

She wears a wedding ring and means it. Most of the time.

But there’s another version of me. The one no one sees. She only comes out in quiet corners—when the house is still, when the music is just right, when someone texts, “Are you okay?” and actually means it.

She doesn’t want chaos. Just… more. More conversations that feel like electricity. More moments where she’s not explaining herself, just understood. More mornings where she wakes up and doesn’t have to armor up before breakfast.

That version of me remembers things I’ve tried to forget. She flirts with regret. She dances with temptation. She writes to feel real.

I love both versions. But sometimes, I wonder which one will survive me.



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Thank you,

Eva.