Transmission Received: From the One Who Hid

 //  Origin: Under the Table, Third House on the Left // Status: Cheeky But Honest // Label: ghosts & echoes

Dear Grown Me (a.k.a. Planner of Everything),

So… you finally noticed me.

Took you long enough. I've been pacing in the background like a kid on sugar and secrets, just waiting for a crack in your “emotionally regulated adult” façade. Now here you are writing me letters like we’re pen pals from separate dimensions.

Let me get this straight: I vanish for decades, and now you’re like, “Hey little buddy, wanna come out and play?”
Mate. Seriously?

But fine. I’m here. And I’ve got things to say.

Let’s start with the obvious: I didn’t hide for fun.
I didn’t crawl behind your logic circuits and safety protocols because it looked cosy. I disappeared because back then, being me wasn’t safe. Not curious me. Not joyful me. Not even confused-and-just-wants-a-hug me.

I learned fast. New school, new smile, same mask.
Get in, figure out who’s safe (usually no one), keep jokes handy, pack light.
Repeat.

I was a nomad with a backpack full of half-finished friendships and one rule:
Don’t get attached. You’re leaving soon anyway.

And the grownups? Oh, they loved the “good boy.” The quiet one. The polite one.
The one who made them comfortable.
Not the kid who asked too many questions or cried during thunderstorms or tried to tape his stuffed animals' broken legs like it meant something.

You learned to wear a mask to get through it.
I became the mask.
And eventually, nobody asked where I went.

Until alcohol came along.

Honestly? I liked drunk-you.
Not the stumbling part. But the part where you let me out for a bit.
You laughed without permission. You said things out loud.
We made up stories. We danced in kitchens.
You let me play pretend in real life.

But then you slammed the door again.
Because feelings got heavy, and joy turned into shame.
And I went back into hiding, this time behind glass and gin.

So yeah. I’m cautious. I’m still watching.
But here’s the thing, Logic Lad: I want back in.

I want crayons that break mid-drawing and I want to laugh so hard my sides ache.
I want to wear odd socks on purpose and name pigeons things like Sir Clucksworth.
I want to ask “why?” ten times in a row, not to be annoying, but because I actually want to know.

I want a best friend I don’t have to leave behind.
I want to cry and not have it diagnosed.
I want to sit in a blanket fort and believe that this is enough.

So here’s my deal:

You keep making room. Not just when it’s poetic or sober or safe.
Every day. Even the messy ones.
Let me into your routines, not just your memories.

In return, I’ll bring wonder. And jokes. And this weird thing I do with socks that you’ll pretend not to love.

You don’t have to protect me from feeling anymore.
Just promise you’ll let me be loud sometimes.

Truce?

- The One Who Hid, but never stopped hoping you'd look under the blanket fort before you folded it away