I tried on a mask of indifference, learned to stay quiet, not to tremble at night. “I wish I were less sensitive,” I whispered to myself, gathering the pieces by morning. “I wish I cried less,” I begged the sky, but the sky said nothing, and I couldn’t sleep. But who am I without my fear of being abandoned a quiet fear that cracks my chest? Who am I without my sensitivity, which catches warmth in every glance and hears goodbye in a brief “sorry”? Without longing for the one I love, without sadness and tear-stained eyes what’s left? A smooth shell, an empty room, the lights turned off. I don’t want to be convenient and uncomplicated. I want to be myself even if it hurts.