You see them. Or at least, you think you do.
They move through the world as if they belong to it, as if the weight they carry is not an unbearable thing. Their laughter still sounds like laughter, their words still make sense. They reply to messages. They show up where they need to be. They nod in the right places. They don’t cry in the shops.
But if you knew how to look closer, you would see it - the quiet collapse.
It’s in the way their hands shake just slightly when they think no one is watching. In the way they exhale a little too deeply, as if trying to push something heavy from their lungs. In the way their eyes seem present, but not quite here, as though part of them is drifting somewhere unseen, somewhere dark and untouchable.
They are drowning, but not in the way people expect. There is no thrashing, no wild gasping for air, no reaching out for help that never comes. This kind of drowning is silent. It is a slow descent beneath the surface while the world keeps moving above them, unaware.
They wake up tired, but not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. They carry an exhaustion in their bones that no amount of rest will erase. They move through the motions of living, but the weight of simply being presses down so hard, they wonder how long before they sink completely.
But they don’t say this out loud.
Because how do you explain that the air feels thinner? That the days feel longer? That they are unravelling, slowly, painfully, invisibly?
So they do what they’ve always done. They get up. They keep going. They convince the world they are fine.
Until maybe one day, someone sees them - not just the mask, but them. And maybe that will be enough to keep them afloat a little while longer.
Love this!