You were 9.
Your best friend did not sit next to you on the bus.
She sat with someone else --
and giggled the whole ride.
You tried not to cry.
But it bubbled up anyway.
Tight throat.
Wet eyes.
Hot cheeks.
At home, you said, "I think she does not like me anymore."
And your mom barely looked up from folding laundry.
Without pausing, she said:
"Oh please. Do not be so sensitive. You are making a big deal out of nothing."
But it was something.
Because you were not just sad about the seat.
You were scared of losing someone.
Scared you were easy to leave.
Scared something about you was wrong.
But you swallowed it.
You learned to brush it off.
To laugh it away.
To say "I'm fine."
Even when you were not.
You learned that feelings made people uncomfortable.
Like when you cried after losing a school contest, and your mom rolled her eyes and said, "It's not the Olympics." That big reactions made you dramatic.
That sadness was annoying.
That hurt had to be hidden.
So you grew up.
And now you are dating someone.
They cancel plans last minute.
Forget your birthday.
Flirt a little too much with the waitress.
You feel it rising --
disappointment, worry, ache.
But then that voice:
"Do not be so sensitive.
You are being too much."
So you do not say anything.
You self-soothe.
You shrink.
You pretend to be chill.
You think, maybe I am overreacting.
Because somewhere inside,
you still think your feelings will make you unlovable.
That love means approval --
and approval means being easy.
Undemanding.
Emotionally neat.
But love is not about tidiness.
It is about truth.
Connection.
Being seen in the mess.
And still chosen.
You are not too sensitive.
You are human.
And your feelings are not a flaw to fix --
they are a guide to follow.
You do not have to shrink anymore.
You are allowed to ask:
"Can we talk about what just happened?"
"This hurt me."
"I need more clarity."
"This matters to me."
And when you do --
the right people will not call it drama.
They will call it intimacy.