I’m sitting in my car in the back corner of the gym parking lot and it’s 2:18 AM and I am literally shaking. I can’t even go inside yet. I’m wearing this charcoal hoodie that’s basically a tent, three sizes too big, cinched at the waist so nobody can see how much of a fucking ghost I am. I look at my wrists and they’re just... sticks. Pale, pathetic little twigs. I see these guys through the window, the regulars who are there every night, and they’ve got these massive, vascular forearms and delts that look like they’re carved out of granite. And then there’s me. A college sophomore who looks like he hasn’t eaten since the Obama administration because I’m too busy making sure everyone else is fed. It’s the same routine every single night. I wait until my dad finally passes out, wait until the oxygen tank stops hissing so loud, wait until the house is quiet enough that I don't feel like a criminal for leaving. I spent three hours tonight cleaning up the soup he spilled on the rug and then another hour helping him get changed because he can't even grip a button anymore. It’s soul-crushing. I am twenty years old. I should be at a party or sleeping or literally anything else, but instead, I’m the one checking the pulse oximeter at midnight. I’m the one who remembers the meds. I’m the one who lost fifteen pounds this semester because I don’t have time to eat a real meal between classes and his appointments. My body is just... wasting away. Atrophy. That’s the word. I’m literally watching myself disappear. I finally walked in and went to the rack, trying to stay in the shadows, but of course, Greg was there. He’s this absolute unit, nice guy, whatever, but he looked at me and said, "Hey man, you're looking a little light lately, you doing okay?" LIGHT. He meant small. He meant I look like a terminal patient myself. I just pulled the hood lower and muttered something about a heavy course load. I felt like such a liar. I started doing some bicep curls—pathetic weight, like, the kind of weight a middle schooler uses—and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror when the sleeve slipped. I saw the bone. Just the joint and the thin, stringy muscle. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the dumbbell through the glass. I’m so ANGRY. I’m angry that my brother gets to live in a different state and just send a "How’s Dad?" text once a week while I’m here becoming a shadow. I’m the primary caregiver. I’m the son. I’m the student. I’m everything to everyone and I have NOTHING left for myself. Not even a body I can stand to look at. I work out to try and feel strong, to try and feel like I could actually carry the weight of this house on my shoulders, but I just end up feeling more fragile. Every time I lift, I feel like I’m going to snap in half. I’m so goddamn tired of being the reliable one, the one who stays, the one who shrinks so there’s more room for everyone else’s problems... The gym is supposed to be where you get bigger, right? That’s the whole point. But I feel smaller every time I walk through those doors. I see these athletes, guys my age who have nothing to worry about except their "macros" and their "split," and I just want to vomit. They have no idea. They have no clue what it’s like to have your entire identity consumed by a sickbed. I’m not even a person anymore. I’m just a set of hands that changes linens and writes essays and tries to hide the fact that I’m literally starving for a life of my own. Yesterday, my dad looked at me—really looked at me—and said, "You’re getting too thin, son, you need to eat more." I almost lost it. I ALMOST LOST IT. YOU. You are the reason! I didn’t say it, obviously. I just gave him his water and smiled like a good little martyr. But then I went into the bathroom and gripped the sink until my knuckles were white and I just stared at my arms in the mirror. They’re so underdeveloped. It’s like my body is reflecting how little I matter in my own life. I’m a footnote in my own story... I’m still in the car. I can’t go back in there. I can’t stand the pitying looks or the way the light hits the floor. I’m just going to sit here in this oversized hoodie and wait for my heart to stop racing. I have to be back home in four hours to start the morning routine anyway. Diuretics. Oatmeal. Blood pressure checks. It never ends. It’s just this endless cycle of being the "strong" one while my actual physical body is crumbling into dust. I’m twenty years old and I feel like I’m eighty. I’m just... I’m done. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that I’m okay with being the invisible man... I just want to be heavy. I want to take up space. I want to be someone who isn't just a ghost in a sweatshirt. But I'm too tired to even lift the weights tonight... I'm just too fucking tired.