There comes a point
when the structure stops pretending.

The beams hold, technically.
The walls still stand.

From the outside
nothing looks different.

But inside
every joint is carrying more weight
than it was built for.

You walk through the days
with the careful movements
of someone crossing thin ice.

Not because you want to.
Because the ground beneath you
no longer feels certain.

People speak about endurance
like it is a virtue.

They have never felt
what it is to reach the far edge
of your own capacity

and realize
how quiet the world becomes
when you are standing there alone.

Still.

Something in you remains.

Not hope.
Not strength.

Just the refusal
to disappear

for someone else’s comfort.