I stayed stable in front of someone — composed, — even when everything inside me was falling apart. But instead of helping, they mocked me for being weak. “Stop having that kind of mindset. You’ll be fine. Stand on your own.” I understood what they meant. And it made me think. I’m not sad in the way people usually define sadness. I don’t drink at night or smoke during the day. I don’t ruin myself loudly. There are no signs on the outside. I don’t scream for help. I just lie in bed and let the hours pass. I stare at the ceiling, lost in a world only I can see. I laugh at my problems like they’re nothing — until they fade into the background. Until I can pretend they never existed. So what does that make me? I’m not crying. I’m not hurting in a way others can see. But the emptiness is there, sitting silently with me. I carry it around like an extra skin — invisible, but heavy. I’ve gotten so used to the weight, I forget it’s not supposed to be there. Maybe they were right. Maybe I really do need to change. But how do you fix something when you’re not even sure what’s broken? I don’t even know who I am anymore. Just someone surviving, I guess. Not living. Just… here. (—lamuerte)