A Letter

Are you reading this? Of course you are, you're seeing this.
But please humor me and my late-night thoughts and read to the end, because this is a confession.
My friends... well, some of them, anyways, know I've asked this. Asked why people care about me.
I do ask, because I don't know the answer.
I'm clingy.
I get paranoid easily.
I'm a depressed and anxious mess.
And yet people still care.
Why?
I know two people that I talk to frequently that I'd die for. I'm dating one, and consider the other a sibling.
They're the two I should be able to open up to.
But I can't.
I have an image to keep up.
The strong, reliable friend with a smile on their face who cheers people up.
Who's always cheerful and joking around.
That other me... she's not the real me.
Actually, I can't say that.
I don't know the real me.
It's a terrifying thought, not knowing your identity. But it exists.
I wonder if it started when I stopped being okay.
If you're reading this and you know who I am, why do you care about someone like me?
I don't get it.
Anyways, moving on.
I'm scared. I'm scared of losing the people that matter. I'm scared of being abandoned, worthless, a thrown away doll.
My friend told me he loved me two nights ago.
I don't know if he was joking.
I asked about someone who I got concerned about and I think I made two good men feel immense guilt because I brought it up.
If either of you are reading this, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

This isn't a suicide note. I don't have plans to leave.
But I'm already in Hell, I guess.
And it's nobody's fault but my own.
-Maki