They say, "You're so strong" And I smile. Because it's easier to nod than explain that I'm not. That strength isn't what keeps me going - it's habit. I wake up, hold it together, act fine, crack a joke, and call it coping. I don't cry where anyone can see. I've learned to bleed quietly. Every day I carry the weight, tell myself "just one more day," and somehow, I make it look easy. But it's not. It's heavy. And no one knows. They see steady hands, not the shaking ones I hide. They hear my laugh, not the silence after. I'm not strong, I'm just scared of falling apart where someone might notice.