Tired, truly. Of words that fall out reckless from careless tongues; half-formed, half-thought, like they were never meant to mean anything at all. How can’t they see or understand pain unless it’s theirs to claim? How can their eyes never learn to read truth unless it flatters them? Tired, truly. This thing once called common sense now feels rarer than peace, rarer than listening. This blindness to another’s ache. How strange. Tired, truly. Of being weighed, measured, and still found suspicious for just existing without apology, for being ambiguous. Tired, truly. Of being the quiet storm holding the walls up when others crumble. The twenty-four-seven adult in every room; steady,…