The worst part is, most people will never notice this wound in you because you carry it beautifully. You smile at the right moments. You make jokes. You stay productive. You become “the strong one.” The capable one. The intelligent one. The person everyone assumes is fine because your suffering has learned how to dress itself well. But at night, when everything becomes quiet, you still feel it. That terrifying feeling that if you stop achieving for one second, you will become forgettable. Replaceable. Unworthy of love. And that is an exhausting way to exist.
