People love the strong ones.

The ones who show up even when their lungs are tight and their hearts are tired. The ones who remember birthdays, call back when they miss a call, pray for others without telling a soul. The ones who don't talk about themselves too much because they don't want to sound like a burden. The ones who are always okay, no matter what. Always okay.

Until they're not.

No one ever expects the strong one to break. They're built for this, right? They're the solid ones. The stable ones. The "you're so mature for your age" ones. The ones who always have an extra plate, an open couch, a voice of reason. But what people don't say out loud is this:

Being strong is lonely. Being strong is exhausting.
Being strong can make you invisible.

You learn early that being dependable comes with silence. People don't check on you because they assume you've figured it out. They don't read between your pauses, they don't catch the slowness in your breath or the slight hesitation before your "I'm fine." They don't see the tightness in your jaw when you're encouraging someone else, even though you haven't encouraged yourself in weeks.