There’s something about depression that feels like mold. Not dramatic. Just steady. Growing behind the walls where no one can see. Slow, quiet decay until the beams inside you snap like matchsticks. I smile when I’m supposed to. Shake hands. Nod during meetings. Say “I’m good” so automatically, I sometimes forget I’m lying. But inside, it’s all collapsing. Like someone built me out of cardboard promises and rainy days that never stopped dripping. The worst part isn’t the sadness. It’s the absence. The hollowness that hums through my chest like static. I try to fill it— with books, food, even strangers’ attention. But it echoes back with the same cruel voice: You are not enough. I used to wonder if maybe I was cursed. Born into a bloodline of fractured people with stitched-up hearts and short fuses. But maybe I was just broken in slow motion. Cracked by neglect, shaped by shouting, finished off by silence that never apologized for being loud. There are days I feel strong. But they pass. And the rot always finds me, sinking its teeth into the timber of whatever I tried to rebuild. And I just sit there— smiling, so no one sees I’m caving in.