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Unsure.

They mustn’t feel it. They shouldn’t feel any of it. The belief—no, the lack of it, even as it beats inside me. It’s a belief of a belief, a fragility that’s always been there, or at least, I’d hoped until it was. 

I tell myself it’s enough, that it matters, but the weight of their expectations drags it down. I don’t find value in it unless it’s cherished, unless it’s treasured just as much. They say, “Do more. Be more.” 

But what more can I do than to put my heart and soul into everything I touch? What more can be asked of me? And yet, they still ask. I give and I give, as if nothing matters until it fits into their rigid, narrow notion of what’s good, of what’s worthy. I understand them, but I disagree. 

My worth cannot be measured by their standards, and yet I find myself crumbling beneath the weight of trying to meet them. Their version of ‘good’ doesn’t resonate with the truth that I carry. So I wonder, when will they see that what I offer, this belief of a belief, is already enough?

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