LA NO PASA NADA

It's fine. It's always fine. You said "I'm good" before the sentence even finished. Amiga, your "I'm fine" is faster than a read receipt. It's also doing the work of a whole feeling you never let land.

The one who made it small before it had a chance to matter.

Somewhere along the way, you learned that the full weight of the thing was too much. Too much for the room. Too much for the people in it. So you started trimming. A little less hurt. A little less angry. Just enough to make it easy for everyone else to keep going. And honestly? It worked. Nobody worried. Nobody stopped. Nobody knew.

Someone asks how you're doing and you already have the answer loaded. Fine. Good. Busy. You laugh at the thing that stung. You skip the part of the story where it actually hurt. Babe, you edit the whole experience in real time, like a live broadcast with a five-second delay. Except the delay is permanent.

Because the one time you showed the full version, someone flinched. Or changed the subject. Or made it about them. So your body learned to pre-shrink everything before it reached the air. Honestly, that's not lying. That's someone who learned the room couldn't hold the real weight. It just means you carry it alone now.

Amiga. It wasn't nothing. It mattered. You just got so fast at shrinking it, you forgot how big it actually was.

You said it was fine. You said it a hundred times. That's not weakness. That's reflexes.
But the thing is still there. Under the "fine." Exactly the size it always was.
What happens if you let one thing be the size it actually is?