I’m Always Sad

I’m always sad. Not the kind you notice in movies, not the rain-on-the-window, head-against-the-glass kind of sad. Nah— it’s quieter than that. It’s the kind of sad that sits in your throat and never clears, the kind that rides your shoulders like it paid rent to live there. I laugh. I smile. I shake hands, make jokes, pretend I’m fine— but underneath it all, my ribs are cracking from the weight of everything I never say. I’m always sad. And I wish I could explain it. Wish I could point to something— a scar, a loss, a single story to wrap it all up in— but it isn’t one thing. It’s every silence. Every empty room. Every night I stare at the ceiling asking why my chest feels like a funeral that never ends. I’m always sad. And the worst part? Most days, nobody even knows.