Wearing a mask

You’d never know it by looking at me. You’ll never know that today, just getting out of bed was a victory. The smile I give at the store was the only one I had in me. My forced facial expression, my clothes, my routine - I’m still breaking. Because grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like forced laughter. Like perfectly turned out. Like showing up, nodding politely, and answering, “I’m doing okay,” when I’m really not. I wear the mask to protect myself. To keep from making people uncomfortable. To keep from breaking down in the middle of a meeting, a dinner, a day. But underneath? I'm screaming. I'm trying my best to hold it together with threadbare hope and sheer willpower. I'm carrying the weight of the person I lost in everything I do - quietly, invisibly, relentlessly. So, if I seem short today, or quiet, or like I'm “not myself"... If I cancel plans or I don’t answer a text... If I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes... Please rememb...