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Reflection:

I patched everything to hide the flaws, convinced that if I could just keep the cracks out of sight, I could pass for whole. But perfection is a myth we whisper to ourselves in the dark—an illusion dressed up as safety. And all the while, the pressure built behind the seams—
quietly, until it didn’t.
Unknown to me, I was barely alive.

It didn’t shatter all at once. It was smaller than that—a moment so quiet I almost missed it. A memory I hadn’t invited. A scent that stopped me mid-breath. A sound that didn’t belong. And suddenly, something gave. The façade I had built so carefully—out of control, compliance, and silence—cracked just enough for something else to slip in. Not healing. Not grace. Just… light. Faint, flickering, uninvited.

The light didn’t fix me. It didn’t stitch the broken parts or erase the wreckage. What it did was make everything visible. Every compromise I made to keep the peace. Every silence I swallowed to be acceptable. Every version of myself I abandoned just to be tolerated. It was all still there—ugly, unfinished, honest.
And for the first time, I was alive. I was real.