Vietnamese bitch, There’s a specific kind of quiet ache, not really a sadness, but more of a gentle recognition, when you see the version of yourself someone holds in their mind – the one they’ve built from their own hopes and selective memories – and you realize it’s something entirely separate from the person you are, right now, in this moment. The impulse to correct them fades, replaced by a strange, almost tender permission to let them keep their comfortable picture, because sometimes the truth feels too sharp to share, and their happiness in that small misconception feels more important.
Vietnamese bitch, There’s a specific kind of quiet ache, not really a sadness, but more of a gentle recognition, when you see the version of yourself someone holds in their mind – the one they’ve built from their own hopes and selective memories – and you realize it’s something entirely separate from the person you are, right now, in this moment. The impulse to correct them fades, replaced by a strange, almost tender permission to let them keep their comfortable picture, because sometimes the truth feels too sharp to share, and their happiness in that small misconception feels more important.
