Written by Quinlan Nightshade
I have worn many masks, each one a different shade of truth, each one crafted to fit the moment, the expectation, the necessity of survival. People believe that masks hide, that they are deceptions—but I have come to understand that they are merely the fractured reflections of what already exists within me. They are not falsehoods. They are fragments. And in their cracks, in the spaces where the light slips through, there is something closer to truth than the world is ready to see.
I was once a perfect mirror, reflecting what others needed, bending to fit into the spaces carved out for me by the hands of family, of society, and so-called friendships. I was the one who understood, who forgave, who tolerated. The one who said yes when I wanted to scream no. The one who smiled through gritted teeth and took every unspoken insult, every quiet betrayal, as if endurance was some kind of virtue. I let them believe I was soft and pliable, that I could be molded without breaking.
But cracks form in anything that is forced too hard into a shape it was never meant to take. And I broke, in ways that were silent, in ways that were unseen. A quiet rebellion that did not announce itself with rage, but with withdrawal. I did not shatter. I shed. I shed the illusions, the expectations, the weight of being everything for everyone. And in the end, what remained was something sharper, something colder, something unyielding.
Now, I watch. I measure. I no longer pour myself into hands that will let me slip through their fingers. I give nothing to those who do not prove themselves worthy. And still, they call me cruel. Heartless. Because the world has taught people that kindness is a currency they are owed and that patience and understanding are debts to be collected. But I owe them nothing.
I am not heartless. I have simply reclaimed what was mine to begin with. My time. My energy. My presence. I do not give freely anymore. And in this, I have found a peace that eluded me for years.
This is the first crack in the mask. The first glint of something real beneath the layers they forced upon me. Let them look. Let them see what they have created.
And yet, there is more.
Beneath the masks, beneath the hardened exterior, there is a place that only I have access to—a sanctuary within my own mind where no one else is allowed. Here, I am neither the villain they paint me to be nor the savior they once expected. I am simply existing, untethered from their projections. I do not seek their approval, nor do I crave their acceptance.
But they want access. They always do. They press against the doors of my solitude, demanding entry, demanding explanations. Why are you like this? they ask as if the answer is something they have a right to. As if my detachment is a puzzle they are entitled to solve.
They do not understand that some things are not meant to be shared. That some souls are forged in silence, in the absence of validation, in the cold clarity of isolation. I did not become this way overnight. It was a process, a slow-burning away of everything that was never truly mine.
Let them wonder. Let them question. But they will never truly know. Because the final truth, the deepest truth, is this:
I belong to no one but myself.
And yet, within me, there is conflict. I have realized I am both Carrie White and Carrie Bradshaw. One, the silent victim, trapped in a cycle she didn’t know how to break, letting the world and the people around her dictate her pain, allowing it to mold her. The other, believing she is likable, that she is understood, that she has a place among others—only to slowly come to terms with the fact that she is a complexity most will never fully grasp.
I have spent my life trying to understand everything around me, trying to decode the reasons behind my isolation, my detachment, and my need to observe before I act. I was born without the comfort I needed, without the foundation that others seem to take for granted. And so, I built myself from the pieces I could gather, filling the gaps with knowledge, with analysis, with an unshakable need to see through the illusions that others accept so easily.
And yet, on the outside, I am just like everyone else. Just another face in the crowd, another voice in the noise, another presence that does not demand attention. A paradox. A contradiction. Someone who exists both within and apart from the world at the same time.
Let them believe they understand me. Let them think I am simple. Because the truth is, they will only ever see the version of me I allow them to see. And the rest? That belongs to me, and me alone.
But here’s the paradox: While I claim ownership of my solitude, there is a whisper of something deeper that lingers beneath it all. A question, perhaps. If no one ever truly knows me, then do I ever truly exist beyond myself? If I am only the sum of what I allow others to perceive, then where does the real version of me live—within, or in the cracks of what slips through?
I am both the presence and the absence, the observer and the observed. I am Schrödinger’s Cat, existing in multiple states at once—both known and unknown, both tangible and intangible. To those who perceive me, I am what they expect, what they assume, what they project. But beneath it all, I remain an enigma even to myself.
And maybe, just maybe, that is the ultimate truth of my existence. A paradox that even I may never fully solve. Here is the paradox that I claim of myself. owning my solitude, there is whispers of something deeper that lingers beneath it all. A question, perhaps. if no one ever truly knows me, then do I ever truly exist beyond myself? If I am only the sum of what I allow others to perceive, then where does the real version of me live within, or in the cracks of what slips through?
I am both the presence and the absence, the observer and the observed. My existence is not linear, nor is it confined to a single reflection. it is an endless maze of hallways lined with mirrors. Each mirror shattered in a different place, each crack revealing something new, something unique.
The cracks are not flawed; they are revelations. I see myself in the fragments, each one different from the last. They tell stories, they show truths, and they reveal complexities. and in each one, I see a version of me that was not meant to be seen, a version I never allowed anyone to know. I analyze each crack, as if the fragments of myself could offer clarity, could guide me through this maze I’ve created. But with each new reflection, I realize that there is no perfect version of me to find. There is only what remains, the reflections of a broken mirror. endless and shifting, each piece pointing to a different truth.
And maybe, just maybe, that is the ultimate truth of my existence. A paradox that even I may never fully solve. A fractured maze, where each twist and turn shows a new reflection of who I am. None of them are complete. None of them are final. All of them are parts of the whole. And within this, I find peace because I know now, that no one can fully understand me, not even myself. And that, in its own way, is freedom.
Beautiful Enigmas 