You wake up already negotiating with a day that hasn’t even started. Your chest feels tight before your feet even touch the cold floor, because you know what’s coming: twelve hours of scanning faces, lowering your voice, and absorbing the friction of people who don’t even know they’re leaning on you. It isn’t just tiredness. You aren’t just living your life; you are surveying a perimeter. It is the quiet, heavy erosion of being everyone else’s shock absorber. By 2:00 PM, your brain feels like a browser with fifty tabs open, all of them running background noise you never asked for, draining a battery you can’t seem to charge. I woke up today at 6:51 AM, minutes before the alarm. The hollow thud in my chest was there to greet me before I’d even opened my eyes. Even then, the internal accounting began. If I move quietly, I can avoid the kitchen. If I plan my route now, I won’t have to trigger anyone’s opinion. It is a survival mechanism — mapping the day like a minefield just to stay intact.…