What is my story?
No one ever really asked me that before.
And when the question came, I panicked—
as if I had been living a life without ever holding its narrative in my own hands.
I can tell you the story I was given but that’s sad.
I can also present you the script I did so far, if you want me to sound cool.
But let me tell you what’s real after all.
Maybe that’s because, for so long,
I lived a story written by others.
You are born, they hand you a name, a shape, a script and you don’t question it.
You perform it.
Until something doesn’t fit.
Until you feel like an imposter in your own life, like the etiquette they taught you
was designed for someone else.
So you wander.
You doubt.
You turn against yourself for not aligning.
And then you decide: fine. I’ll become something else.
But even that feels borrowed.
A new label, a new set of rules,
just another costume with different stitching.
I followed every instruction—
the anonymous, the discreet,
the masculine, the feminine,
the open, the undefined.
I did it all, exactly as prescribed.
And still—
here I am.
Somewhere in between.
On that thin, trembling line
where black and white dissolve into something uncertain.
I try to be gray— you know a mix of black and white , just to exist quietly in the middle.
But something in me refuses.
Because what shines through isn’t gray at all— it’s silver.
Restless and reflective
Silver is not what I became, but what remained when I stopped pretending.
Maybe that’s my story.
Not a fixed identity, but a continuous blurry reflection
A quiet, stubborn fight
to belong—
to exist—
to be seen.
And, perhaps one day,
to let go of the script I was given
and simply be that restless silver—
not a borrowed shape, but the truth pacing inside it,
not a life performed, but a heart finally allowed to bit in its own rhythm.
Well, that’s the story so far and looking forward to see what I will become.