Her Tears, His Silence

Sometimes I wonder if I was meant to live, or just meant to survive. Every morning I open my eyes to the same dull ceiling, the same suffocating air. Nothing ever feels different. The sunlight feels fake—like it doesn’t belong to me. It warms everything else but skips over me as if even nature knows I’m not worth the effort. I don’t remember when the misery started. Maybe it was always there. Maybe I was born into it—cradled by loneliness and fed by disappointment. I walk through life like a ghost. People see me, but they don’t really see me. I smile when I’m supposed to. I nod at the right time. I laugh quietly so no one hears how hollow it sounds. They think I’m okay because I’ve become good at pretending. But inside… I’m just tired. Tired in a way sleep can’t fix. Sometimes I cry without knowing why. Not loud, not desperate. Just silent tears in the dark. And other times, I feel nothing at all. That’s worse. Because when you feel nothing, you start to wonder if you’re even alive. They tell me things will get better. That I just need to stay strong. But what if I’ve already given everything I had to keep going? What if there’s nothing left? I want to scream. I want to be held. I want someone to say, “I see you. I hear you. You matter.” But no one ever does. I’m just the girl in the background. The one who fades into silence when the room fills with laughter. All I’ve ever wanted is peace—just one day where I don’t feel like I’m breaking. One day where the weight lifts, and I can breathe without pain. But until then, I wear my mask. I walk my path. And I hope, maybe, that someday… someone will care enough to ask, “Are you okay?” and truly mean it.