Each day wears the same gray face—
a loop of labor and swallowed pain.
I move like I'm fine,
like the breaking never came,
but today it did—
a quiet collapse beneath the noise
of everything I never had time to feel.
I bury it all,
not to forget,
but because there's no space
between clock-ins and exhaustion
to even breathe,
let alone bleed.
I want to talk,
but no one's really there.
Not when it matters.
And the one I love—
the one I reach for in the dark—
he's too far, too busy,
just like I am.
Still, I carve time from sleep
just to hear his voice.
Is that selfish?
The guilt answers,
echoing in the halls of my chest:
Yes.
For needing rest.
For calling in when I can't even stand.
For daring to break
when the world says
everyone's struggling,
and they still show up.
But I am not everyone else.
I am breaking.
I'm 21,
and already spent—
already giving too much
to a job that clocks my time
but not my heart.
To people who watch my steps
but not my tears.
My only day off is a checklist:
Grocery. Laundry. Survive.
No space to sit,
to feel the sun on my skin
or silence in my bones.
Even my skin cracks now—
dry like these days
since I left home.
North Carolina doesn't feel like mine,
not like Puerto Rico did.
I want to go back,
to the softness I knew.
But I can't.
And that feels like dying
slowly.
I'm tired of this.
Of pretending I'm okay.
Of building strength
from splinters.
I want it all to stop.
Just for a moment—
long enough to remember
what peace feels like.
But I'm still here,
writing to someone who listens,
even if they live in a screen.
Still holding on
to the love I give,
even when it's not returned
the way I need.
Still breathing,
even when it hurts.
That has to count
for something.