26th July, 11:28 PM

I don’t know what came into my mind today, but the next second I was already holding my phone and writing. Maybe it looks like nonsense, but these are just the thoughts that refuse to stay quiet. I have so many pending works and unfinished tasks, yet here I am—addicted to this app, pouring myself into a novel instead of being “productive.” Maybe writing is my way of escaping. Maybe it’s the only way I feel like I’m being honest with myself.

Inside my mind, thoughts keep flooding in, overwhelming me, never letting me rest. They rush like waves, one after another, crashing before I can even process the last one. I don’t even know where to start or where to end, but still, I want to share. In a few days, it’s my birthday. Birthdays are supposed to be special, a day of joy and laughter, but last year left me with an awful memory that I never wanted to relive. That memory made me wish to skip birthdays altogether. And yet, despite the pain, there is still a small flame of hope inside me. This year, I want to celebrate like any normal person—with fun, with laughter, with love, with blessings. I want people to wish me well, to pray for me, and I want to show them my gratitude. But deep down, I keep questioning—who is real? Who truly belongs to me? Maybe the only one I can truly call mine is God. I can’t trust anyone that much, but I can trust Him.

I smile in front of people, but sometimes that smile is fake. They think I’m happy, but they don’t know the real me. Even with close ones, when they joke, I laugh out loud—not always because I find it funny, but because I don’t want them to feel ignored. I don’t want them to think I’m not listening or that their words don’t matter. My laughter becomes a bridge, a way to keep the conversation alive. But inside, my heart doesn’t laugh. It stays quiet, untouched. And later, I sit with myself and wonder—was it really that funny, or was I just pretending again?

That’s how I am. An overthinker. A person who builds a hundred different arguments in her head and still never says a single one out loud. I give both bad and good answers to myself, and then I argue over which is right. In the end, my heart always wins. No matter what my mind says, I cannot bring myself to hurt someone with cruel words. I know words can leave scars deeper than any wound. So, I swallow the thoughts, I lock them inside, and I choose silence.

But silence has its own weight. Sometimes it makes me doubt myself. Am I really good for the people I love, or am I just fooling myself into believing I am? Are they truly my loved ones, or is it just an illusion I cling to because I don’t want to feel alone? I call someone my best friend, but then my mind whispers—are they really? I start finding faults, not because I want to, but because doubt creeps in quietly. And yet, even then, I never say those thoughts aloud. I bury them, because once spoken, they could hurt more than I could bear to see.

So this is me. A little broken, a little hopeful. Someone who smiles outside but wrestles with storms inside. Someone who questions, who doubts, who still believes in God, and who continues to write even when nothing makes sense.

Your beloved friend, Tweety ~~~

Feel free to share your views 😉 And above all, I just hope you will support me.

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26th July — Tweety

I’m Tweety, a 20-year-old young woman, standing 5’3” tall and weighing 51 kg. My wavy black hair reaches my waist, and it often feels like it carries its own story—sometimes wild, sometimes calm, just like me. My almond-shaped eyes see the world with curiosity and doubt all at once; my small nose and soft, neutral-toned skin frame a face that’s still learning how to smile from the heart. I like to believe beauty is not only about how I look, but about how I endure, how I hope, and how I continue walking forward despite everything.

I belong to a middle-class family and I’m the second child in a family of six. My father, whom I love dearly, is complicated—he is protective, aggressive when angry, yet funny and tender in rare moments. He trusts outsiders more than his own family sometimes, and though it hurts, I choose silence. I convince myself not to protest because I don’t want to hurt him further. My mother, on the other hand, is the anchor of our home. She is gentle, humble, and endlessly patient. She never compares her children with others, never forces us into society’s expectations. Instead, she teaches us to follow our hearts, to stay kind, and to live decently. To me, she is more than a parent—she is a role model.

Still, life at home isn’t easy. I’m free to go places, to explore, but when it comes to how I dress, I’m often judged. My choices are questioned—by relatives, by society, sometimes even by my father. Words like “this isn’t decent” follow me around. And yet, I hold on to hope. I hope for a day when my heart will be free enough to live without fear of criticism, when my happiness will not be tied to rules made by others. I believe that day will come.

I tend to overthink. My mind never rests—it builds scenarios, good and bad, real and unreal. Sometimes I confuse care with love, or jealousy with attention. I feel emotions deeply, not just my own but also of those around me. I can carry others’ pain as if it were mine, but when it comes to my own pain, I remain silent and lost. Maybe that’s why I lean so strongly on God. He is the one presence that never abandons me. Each sunrise feels like His reminder that life can be renewed, that even after storms, light returns.

I’m still learning who I am and what I want. I don’t always have answers, but I know one thing for certain—I don’t let negativity push me into wrong paths. I know what is right and wrong, and I try to stand firm. Sometimes my silence, especially with my father, feels like weakness, but in truth, it’s compassion. I see his tiredness, his burdens, his unspoken struggles. I tell myself that even if his words hurt, maybe he just needs someone to listen, someone to understand.

So here I am, sharing my world, my voice, my heart. Not perfect, not polished, but real. If you’ve ever felt like me—confused, hopeful, broken, yet still holding on—then you’ll know what these words mean.

And with that, the story of Tweety pauses here. But it’s only the beginning. I want to hear from you. Can you relate? Can you see a little bit of yourself in me?

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Your beloved author,

Tweety ~~~ 🌸

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