you are so tired

i am so tired

maybe you are more tired than me

it’s okay

fatigue isn’t a competition

just try and drive that fatigue away

nyx was born during the longest winter their town had seen in decades. the snow did not stop for weeks. it pressed against rooftops, softened sharp edges, muffled sound until the world felt wrapped in gauze. their mother used to say they arrived quietly - no screaming, no crying, and no dramatic entrance. just wide, pale eyes, already watchful.

the town itself was small and coastal, where the sea froze in thick and thin sheets near the shore and gulls cried into gray skies. their parents owned a secondhand bookstore that leaned slightly to the left, as if tired. nyx grew up in its narrow aisles, where dust floated like suspended constellations in slanted afternoon light. they learned early how to move without knocking stacks of books over. how to speak without raising their voice. how to exist in a way that did not disturb.

they were always observant. too observant. they noticed the way customers hesitated before purchasing something indulgent. they noticed when their father’s bushy tail stopped swaying after a long day. they noticed how their mother’s smiles sometimes didn’t reach her eyes. no one taught them to carry those observations, but they simply did. every sigh became something to catalog. every shift in tone, a warning.

when a violent winter storm damaged half the shop during their adolescence, the repairs drained savings and patience alike. the house grew tense. conversations turned brittle. doors closed more often. nyx began making themselves smaller in subtle ways, usually by skipping second helpings at dinner, staying longer at school, pretending not to need new clothes. it felt logical at the time. if resources were thin, they would require less.

that was when the quiet idea took root

not dramatic nor sharp, just a steady murmur: you are baggage. you are another bill for your parents to pay. your parents would be better off without you