You look fine. That’s the part that annoys me most. You show up, smile politely, throw in a joke to deflect, and everyone thinks you’ve got it together. But I know you’re running on fumes. Not just physically. The kind of tired that makes your bones feel like concrete and your thoughts like traffic. You keep trying to out-hustle your own sadness, like maybe if you stay busy enough, the ache won’t catch up. But it always does. You’ve been dragging the weight of things that should’ve been released a long time ago. Old guilt, broken …