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There are days I catalogue myself like damaged property. What still works. What flickers. What should not be relied upon without supervision.

I have learned the language of coping. I know how to sound functional. How to nod at concern without accepting responsibility for hope.

People ask how I am and I give them something usable. A sentence that will not require follow-up.

At night, I lie very still, as if movement might confirm something is wrong.

I think about all the lives that continue without my participation. Weddings. Birthdays. Ordinary Tuesdays that do not need me to justify their existence.

I am not sad in a way that announces itself. This is quieter. This is maintenance. The kind where nothing breaks, but nothing improves.

I go to sleep believing this is what survival looks like. I wake up unsure whether that was ever the goal.