I just… I can’t do this anymore. I swear to god I’m gonna lose it. It’s 2:17 AM and I’m sitting in the dark kitchen because if I turn on a light, he’ll wake up. And if he wakes up, I’m back on call. Again. He’s already pissed I left the hospital the second they stabilized him. “You’re just going to leave me here? Alone?” he whined, like a damn child. Yes, I am. Because for the first time in three weeks, I can breathe for five minutes without someone demanding something from me. My phone’s on silent and I’m actually *hiding* it under a pile of mail so I don’t see the notifications. Pathetic, I know. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is… I spent my entire goddamn weekend at the community center. You know, the one with the horrible fluorescent lighting and the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant. From 10 AM to 4 PM, both Saturday and Sunday, I was there. Waltzing. Foxtrotting. Doing the cha-cha with Mrs. Henderson who keeps forgetting the basic step and then blames *me* for her missteps. And I smiled. I laughed. I even managed a halfway decent rumba with Mr. Chen, who probably only shows up to get away from his wife. I was a goddamn ray of sunshine, pretending like my life isn't a dumpster fire. Everyone there, they’re all like 70 years old. Minimum. And they all think I’m just some sweet, artistic young man with a *passion* for classic dance. “Such a nice boy, helping out,” they say. Helping out? I’m PAYING to be there. I’m paying so I can have six hours a week where no one asks me for a goddamn thing. No medication schedule, no grocery lists, no doctor’s appointments. Just the count. One-two-three, one-two-three. And for a few minutes, I can pretend I’m not twenty years old and stuck raising my father because he can’t manage his own damn life. For a few minutes, I’m just Daniel, who likes to dance. And then I walk back into this apartment, the air still thick with the smell of old man and cheap takeout, and it all comes crashing down. The hospital calls. He’s fallen again. He’s yelling. He’s confused. He’s scared. And I’m the one who has to go. I’m the one who has to calm him down, explain everything to the nurses, sign the papers, listen to his complaints about the food. I’m the one who has to be the adult. Always. And no one, not a single one of those old ladies at the community center, or even my own damn family, has any idea. They just see the kid who’s good at the tango. I just want to scream. I want to throw something. I want to run away. I want to just… disappear. Maybe go live in a dance hall and just waltz until my feet bleed and I forget everything else. Is that so wrong? To just want to be *me* for a second? Without the weight of everything on my shoulders? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know how much more I have left. My phone just buzzed. Probably another passive-aggressive text from my sister. I’m not looking. Not yet.