There was a difference between home… and outside.
I didn't notice it at first.
But as I grew, it became clearer.
At school, everything felt simple.
Children laughed without thinking.
They argued, cried, and forgot about it the next minute.
They didn't think twice before speaking.
They didn't measure their words.
They were just… children.
And sometimes, I watched them.
Not in a strange way—
just quietly.
Wondering how it felt to be that free.
To not think about reactions.
To not adjust yourself depending on someone else's mood.
I could laugh like them.
I could talk like them.
But somewhere inside,
I was always a little more aware.
A little more careful.
Home was different.
Not bad.
Not something I wanted to run away from.
Just… different.
At home, I knew things without being told.
I knew when my mother was in a good mood—
when I could talk freely, joke, and just be around her without thinking.
And I knew when she wasn't.
Those were the times I became quieter.
Not because I was scared…
but because I didn't want things to turn into something else.
Something heavier.
It wasn't something I planned.
It just became a habit.
Adjusting.
Balancing.
Living in between two versions of myself—
one outside…
and one at home.
And somehow, both of them were real.
But neither of them felt complete on their own.