They mean well.
“At least you’re alive.”
As if that’s the goal.
As if breathing counts for everything
when every breath feels borrowed,
when your body is no longer yours.

But you miss living.
Moving without calculation.
Laughing without flinching.
Sleeping without interruption.
Waking without dread.

Now every moment is a trade.
A quiet negotiation between what hurts
and what needs to get done.
What you want
and what your body won’t allow.

You smile when they ask how you’re doing.
You deflect.
Because telling the truth
feels like dragging them into a war they’ll never have to fight.

So you say, “I’m fine.”
Because if you don’t,
they look at you like you’re broken.
Or worse—like you’re failing at being hopeful.

But inside, you’re tied to the pain.
Chained to it.
Bartering with it like a hostage,
trying to get through the day
without making it angry.

One wrong move,
and the cost is hours, days—
sometimes pieces of yourself
you know won’t come back.

You mourn what was.
Not in loud sobs,
but in the silence of turning down invitations,
canceling plans,
watching the world move on
while you sit in the same place,
counting pills
and pretending it’s enough.

They say, “At least you’re alive.”
And you nod.
Because arguing takes too much energy.
And grief like this doesn’t make headlines.