(Trigger warning)

Perhaps I am nothing more than an actor, spending my life staging the illusion of happiness. Or maybe I am a conjurer, using every word I’ve learned to manipulate our emotions, yours and mine alike. As the audience, you seem to believe, at least a little, in what I’m saying. But everything you feel—the empathy, the worry—who are you truly responding to? Is it the real me you’re seeing, or are you lost, too deep within my illusion, staring into a mirror that only reflects your own ghostly shadow?

Perform happiness. Perform it so well that you believe it’s real, so well that you can’t help but question: how could this be a performance? Perform it until even I am nearly convinced.

If everyone is certain that I can no longer feel sorrow, then maybe, in the end, even I won’t be able to see my own tears anymore. But… is that really what I want?

I know you fear the same thing.