The weight no one sees

I am tired of this feeling— not the kind of tired sleep can fix, but the kind that lives in the chest and follows me into every room. I smile with my friends, a practiced curve of my lips, so perfect it fools even me for a moment. They see laughter. I feel survival. I thought I understood when people said mentally sick. Now I know— it is explaining “I’m not okay” until the words feel heavy, until silence feels kinder than feeling like a burden. So I pull back. Not because I want to be alone, but because I’m afraid they’ll leave first, tired of carrying a version of me that even I struggle to hold. And that kind of hurt— I know it cuts deeper. Food loses its meaning. Sleep comes and still I wake exhausted. I run from conversations not from lack of love, but from lack of energy. Sometimes I wish to be invisible, standing among people without being seen, without having to explain. The hardest part is the smile that lasts all day and dies quietly at night. When I’m alone, my mind won’t rest— it replays, it judges, it aches. Old thoughts knock again, promising relief they never keep. I’ve learned the truth: they only leave marks, not healing. And I am already carrying enough reminders. What I