Will You Still Follow Me If I’m Sad?
Will You Still Follow Me If I’m Sad?
Will you still like my post if its dreadful?
Sometimes I wonder...
would you still follow me if I wasn’t clever?
If I stopped trying to sound deep and started sounding broken instead.
If I told you I check my phone 8 times before getting out of bed, not for the time, but for a sign that I still matter to someone. Anyone.
Would you still tap that little heart if I posted
"I'm not okay today."
Would you share my words if they weren’t wrapped in aesthetics,
but falling apart like I do sometimes at 1:42 am
for no reason I can explain to even myself?
Because here’s the truth.
I write about love.
Modern love.
Romanticized, filtered, caption-ready love.
But I haven’t held someone’s hand in months.
I write about connection,
but I haven’t felt truly seen in forever.
And some days…
I feel like I’m yelling into the void.
Not in a poetic way.
But in a "please don’t forget me" way.
There are nights when I write these beautiful, lyrical essays,
the ones you repost,
the ones you say made you cry.
But the thing is…
I cry too.
Not while writing.
After.
When I realize I said all these things out loud
and still feel alone.
I once posted a photo with a quote about "healing"
and got 1,328 likes.
No one knew I had just thrown up after crying so hard
I couldn't breathe.
That’s what this space is sometimes.
We show people the clean version of our pain.
Not the mess.
Not the real thing.
Not the part where you lie face down on the bathroom floor
because you’re too tired to pretend anymore.
So yeah.
I’m scared to be sad here.
Because sadness without a filter
isn’t palatable.
It doesn’t trend.
It doesn’t get saved.
But maybe someone out there
... someone scrolling in the dark,
with their heart hanging by a thread,
needs to know
they’re not the only one who feels like a ghost
with a WiFi connection.
So if I stop being polished...
if I show you the bleeding parts
of my very real, very tired soul,
will you still follow me?
I guess I’ll find out.
Until then,
I’ll keep writing.
Even if it feels like no one’s listening.
