Navyaa

We all have versions of ourselves we present to the world. Most days, I slip into mine without thinking.

There’s the version of me that shows up every day.
The one who clocks in (or logs on), meets deadlines, and answers “How are you?” with a bright “I’m good, thanks!” even when the words taste like cardboard.
This version smiles at the right moments, laughs at jokes that aren’t particularly funny, and cracks a few of my own to keep the energy light.
People call this version reliable. Easygoing. Fun to be around.
They don’t see the scaffolding holding it together.

And then there’s the other version—the one that only appears when the door closes, the lights dim, and the audience is gone.

This version sits in the dark afterward.
Hollowed out.
Not dramatically sobbing or breaking things—just… empty. Staring at the wall or the ceiling, replaying the day like looped security camera footage. Wondering what exactly was said, whether the smile looked real enough, and whether anyone noticed the lag between what I said and what I felt.
This version doesn’t speak. It just exists in the quiet, heavy silence, carrying the weight of everything the daytime version refused to acknowledge.

The poem that haunts me lately puts it perfectly:

There’s a version of me
that shows up every day,
does what’s expected,
smiles, laughs and jokes

and then there’s the version of me
that sits in the dark afterward,
hollowed out,
wondering how long i can keep
splitting myself in two.

I didn’t write those words, but I could have. They echo in so many late-night scrolls, so many quiet car rides home, so many moments when the mask slips just enough to feel the cold air underneath.

This splitting isn’t dramatic or cinematic. It’s mundane. It’s sustainable… until it isn’t.

The daytime version is survival mode—a carefully calibrated performance shaped by years of learning what keeps conflict low, expectations met, and relationships intact.
The nighttime version is the cost of admission. The emotional overdraft. The part that pays interest on every forced smile and swallowed feeling.

And the question that lingers longest isn’t “Why do I do this?” (The answers are usually obvious: work, family, society, fear of being “too much” or “not enough.”).
The question is quieter, more urgent:
How long can I keep splitting myself in two?

Because every day, the divide grows a little wider.
The daytime version gets better at performing—more polished, more automatic.
The nighttime version gets quieter, more tired, and more convinced that this is just how life works now.

But it doesn’t have to be forever.

The first crack in the pattern usually isn’t a big breakdown. It’s smaller:

• Saying “actually, today was rough” instead of “fine.”
• Turning down an invitation without inventing an elaborate excuse.
• Letting someone see the hollowed-out version for ten seconds before the mask snaps back.
• Writing it down. Naming it. Letting the two versions meet in the same room for once.

It’s terrifying. And it’s exhausting in a different way.
But it’s also the only path that leads somewhere other than deeper exhaustion.

If you’re reading this and the words feel like they were pulled from your own chest, know this:
You’re not broken for having two versions.
You’re human in a world that often demands performance over presence.

And you’re not alone in wondering how long you can keep it up.

The real courage isn’t in never splitting.
It’s in slowly, carefully, starting to let the two versions talk to each other—until one day they might not have to live so far apart.

Take care of the version sitting in the dark tonight.
He’s been carrying a lot.

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