Stories by Preetam

Some people hear the words. Very few hear the meaning.

There are nights when I wonder if people have ever truly seen me.

Not the version of me that jokes around.
Not the version that explains things calmly.
Not the version that looks composed enough to survive another day.

Me.

The person underneath all of that.

The one who notices everything and says very little about most of it.

The one who remembers the exact tone shift in someone’s voice from three months ago and still wonders if that was the moment things changed.

The one who spends hours creating playlists, writing paragraphs, choosing words carefully, trying to love people in ways that feel personal instead of performative… only to hear:
“Nice songs.”
“Cool.”
“Hmm.”

And every time that happens, I smile a little and say it’s okay.

But somewhere deep inside, something quietly asks:
Will anyone ever understand what I was actually trying to say?

A few months ago, I spent almost three hours making a playlist for someone.

Not because I was bored.
Not because I randomly liked music.

I kept rearranging the songs because I wanted the transitions to feel right. I added one particular song near the middle because the lyrics quietly explained something I didn’t know how to say directly. I removed another because it felt too obvious.

To anyone else, it was just a Spotify link.

To me, it felt like handing someone pieces of my inner world without forcing them to sit through a difficult conversation.

I remember staring at the chat after sending it.

And this is the embarrassing part.

I wasn’t waiting for praise.

I was waiting for recognition.

Something like:
“Wait… this feels personal.”
Or:
“Okay hold on, what were you trying to say with this song?”
Or even:
“You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

Instead, the reply came:
“Nice songs :)”

And I remember sitting there staring at the screen, feeling stupid for being affected by something so small.

But it was never about the songs.

It was the realization that someone can receive something deeply personal from you and still not realize they were holding a piece of your heart in their hands.

And then the questions start.

Do normal people really not attach meaning to these things?

Do they actually send songs without secretly trying to say something through them?

Do normal people hear “Nice songs :)” and move on with their day instead of sitting there wondering why that reply made them feel strangely empty?

Sometimes I genuinely wonder if my heart experiences people differently from everyone else.

I don’t think people realize how lonely it feels to constantly be interpreted incorrectly.

People think I’m intense when I’m trying to be sincere.
They think I’m overthinking when I’m trying to explain why something hurt.
They think I’m rude when I finally react after staying silent for too long.
They think I need too much when all I ever wanted was emotional honesty.

Sometimes I wonder if people would understand me more if I were simpler.

If my emotions arrived in straight lines instead of tangled threads.
If I knew how to explain hurt immediately instead of sitting with it quietly for days trying to make it sound reasonable enough for another person to hold.

Maybe then I wouldn’t feel this exhausted all the time.

Because there’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes from constantly translating yourself.

From rehearsing sentences in your head before saying them.
From softening your tone so nobody mistakes your intensity for anger.
From overexplaining your heart because you’re terrified of being misunderstood again.

And after a while, you stop asking:
“Will people stay?”

You start asking:
“Will anyone ever see me correctly while they do?”

Sometimes I wonder whether the problem is that I feel too deeply.

Or maybe I just attach meaning to things most people pass by without noticing.

Maybe that’s why certain moments stay with me for years while other people forget them by the next morning.

A reply.
A tone shift.
A sentence said casually that rearranged something inside me permanently.

And I know that sounds dramatic.

But that’s the strange thing about me.

I don’t think my heart knows how to experience people casually.

I think that’s also why promises affect me differently.

When I say I’ll stay, my heart treats it like a decision, not a temporary emotion.

And maybe that sounds old-fashioned or unrealistic to normal people.

But I’ve never really understood how someone can say certain things with full sincerity one day and slowly outgrow them later like they were only true for a particular version of themselves.

I don’t know how to do that.

Once something becomes emotionally real to me, it stays real for a very long time.

Maybe longer than it should.

The funny thing is, people say I’m “good with small things.”

As if that means I don’t need much.

What they don’t understand is that the small things were never small to me.

Remembering a sentence I said months ago.
Noticing when my voice sounds off.
Asking why a particular song was added to a playlist.
Sensing that my silence means something today.

Those things carry emotional weight for me.

They tell me:
“I see you.”
“I notice you.”
“You are emotionally real to me.”

And maybe that’s why dismissiveness hurts me so deeply.

Not because I’m fragile.

But because care means something enormous to me.

I think that’s also why I hate rudeness so much.

Not loudness.
Not bluntness.

Emotional carelessness.

The kind that makes you feel like your vulnerability is being handled with one hand while the other person scrolls through their phone mentally.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to meet someone who understands me naturally.

Not perfectly.
Not magically.

Just enough that I don’t have to explain every scar before they stop touching it carelessly.

Just enough that I can finally unclench around someone.

Just enough that I don’t feel lonely even while talking.

And maybe that’s the saddest part of all this.

I don’t think I’m asking for the world.

I think I’m just asking for one person who looks at me and says:
“I understand what you were trying to say.”

Maybe that’s why I write so much.

Maybe a part of me still believes that one day, somewhere, someone will read all of this and finally understand me without needing every emotion translated first.

And honestly, I think that would feel like coming home.