The Art of Seeming Fine

Wake up before the world notices.

Stare at the ceiling until the weight shifts enough to move.

Not lighter. Just different.

Just bearable.

Breathe in, sharp.

Hold.

Exhale slow, like it doesn’t ache.

Dress like someone who slept.

Shower like someone who isn’t drowning.

Pick a shirt that says 'I’m fine' in a color that no one will question.

Smile like it's reflex.

Tuck the shaking somewhere soft.

Behind your teeth.

Behind your jokes.

Behind the pause before ‘I’m okay.’

Move through the room like you belong in it.

Make eye contact. Not too long.

Answer the question ‘How are you’

with a shrug, a laugh, a question back.

You’ve learned the rules.

You know the choreography—

the nod, the noise, the joke that buys you space.

The version of you that people recognize.

Keep your hands busy.

Text someone back.

Fold laundry.

Answer emails.

Do not stop. Stillness is too loud.

Cry in the hallway bathroom

with the faucet on.

Breathe into a sweater sleeve.

Wash your face like nothing happened.

You are not lying.

You are surviving.

You are vanishing

the only way you know how—

and you’ve been doing it

for so long

it feels like breathing.