Fine
I think the worst part
is that none of it looks big enough
to explain why I feel like this.
No one points and says,
“that’s where it went wrong.”
It’s just small things—
over and over
until they aren’t small anymore.
My dad has another family now.
I say it like it’s normal,
like it doesn’t sit heavy in my mouth.
He has new kids,
a new life,
and I don’t know where I fit in it.
I don’t think he forgot me on purpose.
I think I just… stopped being included.
And somehow that hurts more.
Because it means
I was easy to leave behind.
And at home
I tell myself it’s fine too—
even when my chest tightens
every time Mum’s voice changes,
even when I replay what I said
trying to figure out
what I did wrong this time.
It’s always small things.
A tone.
A look.
A question I shouldn’t have asked.
And suddenly I’m standing there
feeling about five years old,
trying to fix something
I don’t understand how I broke.
She laughs with them—
my siblings—
like it’s easy.
Like love isn’t something
you have to be careful around.
With me, it feels like
I’m always one step away
from getting it wrong.
So I stopped saying things.
Stopped reacting.
Stopped needing.
Because it’s easier
to be quiet
than to be too much.
And for so long
I called that strength.
I called it fine.
But today
when I said it out loud,
it didn’t sound true.
It sounded like
something I’d repeated so many times
I forgot to check
if I meant it.
Because if it was fine,
why do I feel this ache
in places I can’t explain?
Why do I feel like
I don’t fully belong
anywhere I’m supposed to?
I think I learned
how to live with it
before I learned
how to question it.
And now I am—
and it hurts more
than pretending ever did.
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