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.