THE HEALER DIES IN this ONE The healer is never meant to heal themselves, an unwritten rule, one I co-signed. I poured my heart into everyone, sometimes blindly, until it ran over. I thought giving more meant I’d receive the same effect. I stood in between the darkness and every crossfire, to shield others with the little I had left in me. They called me resilient, but I was never strong; I was just quiet in my suffering. I didn't let anyone see me unhealed because all my power came from helping them mend their wounds. I only gave the same love, effort, and grace I wanted to receive. I knew I could heal anyone, and maybe if I succeed, I could heal myself too. But what happens when the healer needs healing? No one thinks to ask if the strong one is breaking. No one thinks to pour back into the one who poured endlessly into them. The healer grows tired. The healer becomes empty. We get all our power from saving and fixing; we leave no room to pour that into ourselves, too. We want to be seen, heard, and understood, too. So, the healer dies in this one. Not from the lack of empathy, or what they could give, but from the absence of reciprocation when needing it most. And maybe, that is the tragedy of it all, the healer could fix the broken and make them whole, but could never convince anyone to stay long enough to piece them back together, too. The healer might die in this story, but the alchemist lives.