Why do we constantly feel the need to mask our pain? Why do we insist on holding it in, burying it deep inside us, and never letting it out? It seems that, for many of us, there's an unspoken rule that we must adhere to: to pretend that we are okay, even when we are far from it. We wear our smiles like armor, shielding ourselves from the world while concealing the turmoil that brews beneath the surface. Sometimes, I find myself pondering what it would be like to share my pain with someone else. What would it feel like to open up my heart and allow someone to glimpse into my struggles, to let them truly see the hurt that lingers within? I wonder how it would feel to relinquish the burden of solitude and invite someone in to understand my story. But then I remember the confines of my own mind. Living in my head can sometimes feel like a prison, where thoughts and feelings swirl around endlessly, and clarity is elusive. It makes me question whether I will ever truly know what it's like to be vulnerable, to break down those walls I've built for protection. To share my pain feels like a risk—a leap into the unknown that leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I know that others carry their burdens too, and perhaps they also grapple with the fear of sharing. But the thought of entering someone's inner world, or allowing them in to witness my own, evokes a mixture of fear and curiosity. What if sharing my truth could lead to connection, healing, or understanding? Yet, the cycle persists: the mask remains, the pain stays hidden, and the question lingers—how long can we continue to carry these burdens alone?