𝒜𝓃 𝒰𝓃𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝒟𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉: 𝒮𝓊𝒾𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝑒

They told me to write about the bright side as if I’ve ever stood on it. As if sunlight would know my name if it passed me on the street. I don’t remember happiness. Not like a forgotten birthday, but like a language I was never taught— some myth people believe in because the alternative is too cruel. I’ve been alive so long I can’t tell if I’m breathing or just forgetting to die. Some days I don't want to jump. I just want to vanish—without the mess, without the note. They tell me happiness is real. Like gravity, or God. But I think it's just a story people tell themselves so the ceiling fan doesn’t start to look like a way out. Still, if I ever felt it, even for a second, it was before memory began. I think of my mother, holding me right after I was born. Before shame found me, before mirrors made me flinch, before love became a negotiation. I was cradled, stitched into her arms like I belonged. No one expected me to smile. No one told me to be strong. I j...