The Weight of Pages

I read, not because I want to, but because the world watches— eyes measuring my worth in the weight of my marks. Every line I memorize is a brick on my chest, every formula a chain around my breath. They say "maintain your image," so I polish my mind like glass, hiding the cracks, hiding the tremor in my hands. I burn midnight oil not for knowledge, but to prove I deserve a place in this theater of masks. And yet, when I close my book, silence feels louder than success, and my heart whispers— what is the point of being good, if goodness costs my soul? I am a student, but also a shadow— tired, aching, half-human, half-expectation. One day, when the ink finally bleeds through my skin, maybe they will see me, not as an image, but as a person— fragile, burning, real.