The Weight of Telling

‍In my last blog, I wrote about love, or more accurately, the loss of it.
This time, it’s about something smaller, quieter, but every bit as complicated: friendship. 

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Starting again isn’t just about finding a new postcode or a new job; it’s about learning how to be around people again.
People who don’t know.
People who make you forget, for a moment. There’s a headline out there with your name on it. 

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But I never really forget.
Every new friendship starts with the same questions: How much do I share, and when? Am I hiding the truth if I stay silent? 

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Some days it feels like I’m living a double life.
Smiling. Joking. Nodding along. Meanwhile, a voice in the back of my head whispers, "If they knew, they wouldn’t want to talk to me."
 

I’ve made a few new friends recently who know nothing about my past, and honestly, it’s been freeing.
They like me. Not the Google search results, not the story. Just me.
It’s proof that I’m still capable of connection, still able to be seen for who I am.
But even in those moments, the fear lingers.
My name flashes on the back of a bank card or my phone. I hold my breath, waiting for the shift, that subtle flicker in someone’s eyes when they realise I’m not who I say I am. 

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Then there’s the other side of things: the few who do know.
With them, I can breathe easier. The elephant leaves the room.
But honesty has its own cost.
Once you tell, you can’t untell.
You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.
You lose control of the story, how it’s understood, retold, or used against you.
And for someone like me, that risk isn’t just emotional; it’s survival. 

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The cruel irony is, I shouldn’t even have to carry this burden.
I am innocent.
My family knows it. My conscience knows it.
But innocence doesn’t erase a system’s failure, and it doesn’t silence a headline once it’s printed.
I live in the shadow of something I didn’t do, a story I didn’t write, and yet somehow, it’s the one everyone else reads first. 

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Maybe that’s why these new friendships mean so much.
Because they strip everything back.
In these rare friendships, there’s no judgment, no background checks—just two people sharing time, space, and small, ordinary moments. These feel extraordinary when you’ve lived through what I have.
It reminds me I’m still that guy.
The one who cracks terrible jokes and still believes, deep down, that connection can heal what the system broke. 

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But the silence still eats away.
Not telling them.
Not knowing if I ever should. Or ever will.
Because every conversation becomes a tightrope between protection and honesty.
Each step forward risks falling into shame I never earned. 

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After all this, I’ve come to realise that friendship, for me, is an act of faith—on both sides.
I give trust where I can, and hope it’s enough.
I accept kindness when it comes, and try not to question why.
And I remind myself that even if society has forgotten how to see the person behind the conviction, I don’t have to. 

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So, I’ll leave you with this.
I think about telling them most days.
I imagine what it would feel like to be fully seen again; no footnotes, no filter, no fear.
But the thought of watching someone’s opinion of me change in real time? That’s enough to keep the words locked in my throat. 

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Maybe one day I’ll trust the world enough to tell my story without flinching.
Until then, I’m still figuring out if honesty will set me free… or just set everything on fire again.