The Version of Me That Exists When No One’s Watching
She sings badly. Eats weird snacks. Laughs too loud. Honestly? I think she’s my favorite.
There’s a version of me that only exists when I’m alone.
She’s weird.
And kind of unhinged.
She makes up songs about the cat. Eats bread in chunks like a feral toddler. Pretends she’s on a talk show while folding laundry. Tells off imaginary people in the shower. Wins fake arguments she never had.
She’s a little gross, honestly.
And free.
Like, fully uncooked.
No angles. No projection. Just… me.
And I used to be embarrassed by her.
Not because she was bad — but because she wasn’t performing.
She didn’t make sense in public.
She didn’t serve a purpose.
She wasn’t likable or mysterious or cool.
She just was.
And now I think she might be the realest version I’ve got.
She’s the one who doesn’t filter every thought before saying it out loud — not because she’s careless, but because she’s not afraid of hearing herself think.
She’s the one who doesn’t ask if this is “cringe.”
She’s the one who gets things done, actually. She’s the one who makes the list, lights the candle, gets in the damn bath.
She cries when she needs to and then eats cereal over the sink.
She’s… reliable.
Which is a weird thing to say about someone who once tried to vacuum while tipsy and ended up crying on the floor, but still.
She shows up.
And I’ve started to trust her more than the version of me who has her shit together in group chats.
Because alone-me doesn’t lie.
She doesn’t rehearse.
She doesn’t care if it’s relatable.
She just says the thing.
She says: I’m tired.
Or: I don’t want to go.
Or: I’m actually not okay and I don’t need advice, I just need to be dramatic for five minutes.
And honestly? That’s the energy I want more of.
Not some huge self-reclamation arc. Not a structured solo date with a journal prompt and an oat milk latte.
Just a little more time with the version of myself who isn’t trying to be seen.
The one who already knows me.
So yeah.
Talk to yourself more.
Take a stupid little walk.
Sing bad karaoke in the car.
Make the snack you don’t want to explain to anyone.
Take a fucking bath.
Alone-you is not the warm-up act.
She’s the show.
And she’s actually kind of brilliant.