Yes, I am fragile. I have been forced to survive things that should have broke me, but didn't. It would be concerning if I were not worse for wear after surviving what I have. My fragility is not a result of weakness, but rather evidence of my resolve to survive that which I had no right surviving.

When the pain is intense enough, you cease to be someone in the world. You become a body against the world. The bench beneath you becomes strange. The air seems distant. Language cracks under the pressure. Even your name starts to feel like someone else’s.

“Safe” is supposed to be a sanctuary word, something that tells one ‘you can relax’ ‘no harm will come if you let your guard down’. But in practice, it has been stripped down to a forensic utility: are you still breathing? Yes? Then you are safe.

I walked away from a significant financial offer, enough to keep a roof over my head, enough to buy time, finish school, stabilize. I knew exactly what it would cost me. I did it anyway. Because I knew what signing would mean.

My home is not tasteful. It’s not neutral. It’s not designed for approval. It’s loud. It’s strange. It’s unrepentantly mine. And it was never meant to be seen by anyone but me.

It allows everyone involved to feel like they’re doing something—while ensuring that no one is responsible for doing anything.