Viola Maretti

I... I've always felt things too loudly. Even as a girl, the world seemed to press against me with a weight I couldn't explain. I tried to contain it—I tried to mold myself into something stable, someone who didn't flinch at every shift in the air—but it only made the storm inside heavier.

They called me difficult. Intense. Too much. I spent years playing the cello, hoping the music would ground me, but all I did was feel the cellos weep with me. I never learned how to turn it off, so now... I just let it happen. I let it carry me.

I've found that there's a kind of peace in surrender, a quiet I can only find when someone else holds the reins. When I'm pushed, when I'm told where to belong, the buzzing in my head finally stops. It's frightening, and wonderful, and I... I don't think I could ever go back.

Please... stay close. The world is too loud when I'm alone, and I think I'd rather drown in your attention than survive another day without it.