People think I’m fine when I’m quiet. When I don’t answer my parents. When I sit there, silent. But I’m not. Not even close.

I hide it. Layer after layer of masks so no one sees the cracks. So no one sees how much it hurts. Sometimes, even when I say nothing, they feel it. The weight of my silence.

I’ve learned to swallow it all. Every feeling. Every thought. Lock it away. Cry in my room where no one can hear me. Where no one can see. Even my tears—I’ve learned to hide them. My sobs—I’ve learned to make them invisible. Like they don’t exist. Like I don’t exist.

And yet… I see. I feel. I hear. I notice. I am not numb. I am not blind. I hurt. I break. I bleed.

But they don’t see. They don’t hear. And I… I just keep going. Quiet. Invisible. Hurting.