I don’t get to cry about it. I dare not. I’m supposed to be the strong one; the one who holds everything together when it feels like everything is falling apart. It’s exhausting, not going to lie. Pretending that I have it all under wraps when, inside, I’m one minute away from a meltdown.  But what happens when you’re the one with the “common sense,” the one who thinks things through, the one behind the logistics, the one who keeps everything running smoothly — like some invisible thread holding the fabric of it all intact? Or at least the one everyone thinks is all that?  When the truth is, while…