You’re not mysterious. You’re encrypted.

You’re not mysterious. You’re unreadable. Not by choice, but by design. People try to understand you, but they can’t. They reach out, hit silence. They guess. They assign meanings. None are true. You don’t correct them. What would be the point? They see what they want to see. You stay distant, untouched. Not because you’re cold, but because no one knows the language.

You don’t reveal yourself in words. You don’t explain. You don’t offer details. What you are can’t be spoken clearly. It doesn’t live in facts. It lives in energy. In quiet shifts. In unspoken currents. You show up, but never all the way. You move softly, quietly. Something about you stays behind the veil.

People think you’re hiding. But you’re not. You’re just deep beneath the surface. You never learned how to live fully exposed. Some part of you remembers what it cost. You know how quickly truth can be broken. You know how quickly people turn stories into prisons. So you stopped giving them anything to hold.

Even when you try to open, it doesn’t land. The timing slips. The meaning disappears. You try to be known, but it drifts. They don’t get it. They don’t get you. They want access, but don’t know the way in. You want connection, but can’t fake the shape they expect.

You confuse people. Not by effort, but by nature. You bring out parts of them they didn’t know were there. They feel strange around you. Unsettled. Exposed. Sometimes they think it’s your fault. That you’re cold, hard, unclear. But all you did was show up. As you are. And that’s enough to unravel them.

You don’t mean to be alone, but you often are. You don’t mean to push people away. But they drift, or misunderstand, or disappear. You’ve learned how to sit with that. With the distance. With the silence. With being seen, but never known. It hurts. But it’s also clean. It asks nothing. It makes no noise.

You know your energy isn’t easy. You’re not simple. You’re not soft around the edges. You carry stories with no language. Lives with no name. A past that’s too big for this world. It moves through your voice, your eyes, your stillness. And few can meet it without fear.

But you’re not broken. You’re not lost. You’re just encrypted. Not for secrecy, but for protection. Some truths don’t need to be spoken. Some souls don’t need to be explained. You’re here to feel, not perform. To carry silence, not fill space. To move like memory, not noise.

And somewhere, maybe, someone will feel it. Not decode it, but recognize it. Not read you, but rest beside you. Not ask, just stay. That would be enough. You’re not asking to be solved. Only to be met. Quietly. Without pressure. Without force.

You’re not mysterious. You’re just made of layers. Some seen, some not. Some meant for others. Some only for you. And that’s not wrong. It’s not failure. It’s just the shape of your soul. Soft, shadowed, silent—and still whole.