Michael tightened his grip on the edge of the school bathroom sink, staring at his reflection. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his clothes hung loose on his frame. He forced himself to straighten up, paste on a smirk, and shove his emotions down deep where no one could see them. But the cracks were showing; he knew it, and maybe everyone else did, too.
He went through the motions — attending class, nodding along to his friends’ jokes, and slipping into his usual role as the “funny guy” who was always “okay.” But inside, he felt like he was unraveling, like he was a bundle of nerves stretched so thin that one wrong word, one off glance, would tear him apart. He’d told himself over and over he just needed to “keep it together.” Yet every time he looked in the mirror, it got harder to believe his own lie.
After school, his best friend, Taylor, caught up to him in the parking lot, asking if he wanted to grab a coffee and hang out. Michael forced a grin and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” He couldn’t shake Taylor’s look of quiet concern as they drove in silence, the car’s low hum punctuated by short, shallow breaths Michael didn’t realize he was taking.
They found a booth in the corner of their usual café, where the warm scent of coffee mixed with chatter from nearby tables. But today, Michael could barely bring himself to lift his cup, let alone joke around. Taylor noticed. He’d always been good at that — seeing through Michael’s walls without needing an explanation. After a moment, he finally asked, “Are you okay?”
The words hit Michael harder than he expected. He was so used to people taking his “I’m fine” at face value, maybe even relying on it. But now, with Taylor’s earnest gaze on him, it felt like his last chance to drop the mask he’d been wearing for so long. He felt his throat tighten, and every bit of him wanted to laugh it off, brush it away with a joke, but he couldn’t. He looked away, feeling his hands tremble.
“No,” he whispered, surprised by the rawness in his own voice. “I’m… I’m really not okay.”
Taylor didn’t flinch or try to fill the silence. He just sat there, waiting, offering nothing but a listening ear. And slowly, in that quiet, Michael began to speak. About the weight he’d been carrying, about the fear of showing any weakness, about how he didn’t even know who he was anymore. He told Taylor everything he’d been holding back, every piece of the person he hid.
As the words spilled out, Michael felt a strange sense of relief, like something heavy had been lifted off his chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t pretending. He was just himself — raw, hurt, and vulnerable, but real. When he finished, Taylor reached across the table, squeezing his shoulder.
“Hey,” Taylor said quietly, “you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here. Whatever you need… I promise.”
And as they sat together, Michael realized that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to admit he wasn’t okay. Because he wasn’t facing it alone anymore.
There's many times where I feel this. When I feel the need to "keep it together" (for the sake of everybody else's sanity). Especially as someone who is looked up to as a leader where I'm employed, or even just as a cool, calm, and collected person in the midst of chaos, to be that steady, strong beacon of hope. To never give in, to not opening that door to the pain and turmoil that's been locked away, buried deep inside. Because if those emotions see the light of day, especially during a crisis, then multiple people can face unintended consequences.
Sometimes, society puts unreasonable pressure upon people "to hold it together". We need to normalize just being human beings, so thank you for tugging at those heart strings, and shedding light upon a dimmed area of many people's lives.