being mysterious is a privilege

and i’m still trying to earn it

being mysterious is a fucking privilege. it’s not just a vibe you slip into like a pair of sunglasses. it’s a lifestyle. a commitment. a whole ecosystem that depends on your life being quiet, secure, and put-together enough for you to vanish without consequences. you can only be mysterious when you’ve taken care of everything that keeps you visible.

money plays the biggest role. you can’t be mysterious when people see you outside every day because you have to work to survive. mystery needs space, and space costs. the rich get to disappear. the rest of us gets to be seen in public commuting for work.

if i were rich—or just financially stable in a calm, adult way—I’d buy everything i needed to exist without noise. the me with money would live in her silence so gracefully. she’d be unbothered. she’d be the bitch you only catch glimpses of, never the full story.

and i realized this again when i thought about adopting a pet. the fact that i hesitate speaks louder than i do. responsibility demands consistency, money, emotional energy. and if i can’t even commit to a creature that just wants to cuddle and eat on time, am i really built for a lifestyle that requires poise and self-curation. mystery isn’t chaos. mystery is discipline.

then there’s my friends. i love them. sometimes i’m codependent. sometimes i want to run to them first before i run to myself. if i were richer, maybe i wouldn’t cling this hard. i’d probably solo travel, buy myself dinners, let the silence feed me. being unreachable hits different when your life is stable. when it’s not, it just looks like poor communication skills.

and this brings me to the queen of modern mystery: alexa demie.

i sometimes wonder if my desire to be mysterious is even authentically mine or if i’m just haunted by that alexa demie aura. like did i choose mystery or did her entire existence choose me. she’s the blueprint for disappearing in plain sight. you never catch her trying. she’s just… gone. and somehow more present than everyone else. she posts once every solar eclipse and the internet faints. imagine that level of quiet. imagine being so unbothered you become a phenomenon.

and i won’t lie. sometimes i sit there thinking, do i genuinely want to be mysterious or do i just want to look like i own the silence the way she does. am i craving independence or am i craving aesthetic. it’s hard to tell when you’re self-aware to the point of delusion.

but i know this: her mystery works because her life allows it. she’s not waking up at 7am for work (or in my case 8pm). no one sees her outside buying some necessity. her absence feels expensive. mine would feel like poor planning.

sure, private chats and being lowkey online give me a slice of that vibe. but the high-level mystery—the kind where even your closest people don’t have immediate access to you—that’s something i can’t do yet. it’s a dream version of myself. aspirational. fictional. sparkling.

so now i’m left wondering what version of mystery actually fits my real life instead of my pinterest board? what kind of quiet can i afford? what kind of disappearance feels aligned with who i am right now?

and because i’ve been honest with this little digital diary since day one—i’m asking you.

how does someone like me pull off being mysterious in a way that feels intentional, grown, and soft… but not so mysterious that the people i care about start feeling shut out?

how do i do quiet without doing distance?

you’ve read me the longest. what’s your take?

xoxo,

aster

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