Sprawled on a surface I no longer recognize, my chest caved in due to an outburst of emotions. Ironic, as I no longer feel much save for an emptiness that tears at the hole where my heart should be.

The corners of my eyes sting like cracks running through an age old dam, reliable though worn from year long battles. My barrier has weakened but it will not be overtaken by needless streaks of submission.

It hurts.

But the professor who preaches in front of my desk twice a week doesn’t know that. The classmate who carpools with me four out of the five days we ride together doesn’t know. The family who passes by me every single day of the year doesn’t.

And you have never seen past me.

Sprawled, my fingers slowly curl inward. I inhale with a technique that even waterfalls must bow down to.

It hurts.

But my professor will never speak to me. My classmate will never touch me. My family will never see me.

And you will never find me.