The mask I wore
I was the loud one. The funny one. The one who always had a sarcastic remark ready, even when things fell apart.
People called me "sunshine" in high school, said I could brighten a room with my laugh. No one knew how badly I wanted to disappear when I got home.
It started small—like skipping dinner because I wasn’t hungry, or zoning out in class. But then, the weight in my chest never left.
Every smile felt like a lie. Every "I’m fine" was a carefully rehearsed line.
I wore my happiness like armor, hoping no one could see the cracks.
My parents thought I was lazy. My friends thought I was busy. The truth? I was exhausted from pretending. From hiding.
The hardest part wasn’t feeling broken—it was believing I had no right to feel that way. I had a roof, a family, grades, friends… so why did I feel empty?
That question haunted me—until one day, something broke.
