Where one learns to endure

The girl wakes with a knot in her voice,
the day passes by without seeing her,
and the mirror reflects
someone who learned to fake light
so as not to trouble anyone.

She keeps silences in her pockets,
broken promises,
and an ancient tiredness
that does not go away with sleep.
She walks as one who fulfills,
not as one who lives.

The words “tomorrow” weigh on her,
her hands ache from holding on,
and exhaustion — patient, constant —
gradually takes over her space.

She learned that crying does no good,
that asking for help tires,
that saying “I’m not okay”
changes nothing.
So she smiles.
So she endures.

Sometimes she imagines silence
as a warm place,
where no one demands
that she be strong a little longer.

And one day,
when exhaustion learns her name,
the girl stops fighting.

Not because she wanted to die,
but because existing
hurt her every single day.

The tragedy was not that she left,
but that she stayed empty,
with no one noticing.