You know that feeling when you're at dinner, formal, white tablecloth, and your dad starts in again about your career? Like, not even a question, just a pronouncement. He’s talking about 'stability' and 'future' and ‘what will people say’ while you’re staring at a single perfect pea on your plate, trying to make it disappear with your mind. And you just nod, because what else do you do? Because you’ve had this conversation so many times it’s not even a conversation anymore. It’s a script. He plays the concerned patriarch, you play the respectful but silently rebellious child. The whole thing feels… performative. Like, is this even real life or are we all just doing our parts? And the kicker is, you’re not even mad. Not really. It’s more this profound… absence of feeling. Like a flatline. You try to conjure up some resentment, some righteous anger, but it's just not there. You’re just empty. Is that what they call anhedonia? I mean I don't even — whatever. He’s talking about how your art degree is basically a hobby, and how your cousin, the engineer, is building a REAL future, and you just think, 'Okay.' Like a robot. 'Affirmative, Father. Cousin is superior.' It’s so absurd, it almost feels like a comedy sketch. Except it’s your life. Then later, you're alone, scrolling through old photos of home, and you catch yourself feeling… guilty. For not feeling enough. For not fighting back. For not being what he wants. For not even being angry about not being what he wants. It’s this weird ouroboros of emotion. You just want to feel something authentic, anything, instead of this vague, dull ache. Like there’s a part of you that’s just switched off, a failsafe or something. And you wonder if it’ll ever switch back on. Or if this is just… it.