They ask again—
soft voice,
worried eyes.
“You sure you’re okay?”
And I hate that they see it.
The crack in my smile,
the pause too long
before I lie.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I’m just tired.”
The oldest excuse in the book
for a pain you can’t name.
They don’t let it go.
“You’ve been quiet.
Distant.”
And I flinch
because they’re not wrong.
But I laugh,
shrug,
say something like
“It’s nothing,”
because it has to be.
Because if it’s something,
I might have to feel it.
Speak it.
Let it out.
And what if it spills
too fast,
too heavy?
What if I can’t
put it back in?
They sit with me anyway.
Not fooled.
Not leaving.
I want to tell them—
everything.
But I’m afraid
of ruining the way
they look at me.
Like I’m strong.
Like I’m still whole.
So I say it again,
barely above a whisper.
“I’m fine.”
And they sigh.
They don’t believe me.
But they stay.
And somehow,
that hurts more
than being alone.
Author’s Note:
This poem is about the fear of vulnerability and the way we hide behind small lies to protect ourselves. As a teen author, I wanted to show how “I’m fine” can mean anything but that.
Nikolas Mowery | 17 | Bowling Green, OH | @nikolas_mortiis_engineer on TikTok
