I spent twenty-two years being the most reliable person in a three-mile radius, and not a single soul knew I was high as a kite half the time. I kept them in a green Wintergreen Altoids tin, tucked in the very back of the bottom drawer of my desk. Locked. The key stayed on a ribbon around my neck, hidden under my sensible blouses. I’d turn that key, hear that little *snick*, and for five minutes I wasn't a senior administrative assistant or a mother or a wife. I was just a person with a secret. Humans are funny like that—we spend our entire lives screaming to be seen, but the moment someone actually looks at us, we bolt. We want to be known, but only the parts we’ve polished for the storefront.