My laugh, they say, is infectious. A bright, familiar sound that fills the room. But no one ever asks what it costs to produce, What type of hollow ache it creates and leaves behind my ribs each and every day. It’s a practiced art, you see, this mimicry of joy. A performance so convincing, even the audience of myself sometimes forgets, it’s just an act. I sit across from you, a table between us, words flowing, Meaningless small talk about the weather, And behind my eyes, a whole universe is imploding, Suns collapsing into black holes of despair.planets of lost hope spinning wildly into nowhere. And you, you just nod, unaware that the loudest sound in the room is the echo of my own heart shattering. I remember nights the moon was full, a tarnished silver coin tossed against the velvet sky of yesterday. I used to find solace in its cold, distant glow, A cosmic acknowledgment of my own insignificance, which somehow felt comforting. Now, it just feels like another watchful eye, another silent judgment on my inability to simply be. To just breathe. You talk about futures, about plans, about the long road ahead. And I nod. But inside, I’m mapping out exits. Contingency plans for a finale that doesn’t involve a sequel. It’s not morbid.