Mute

They say everything gets better with time. That’s true, of course — if you’re bread. For the rest of us, it’s just a longer shelf life of pretending.

People like to call it “growth.” I call it better packaging. You learn which parts of yourself to display and which to keep behind the curtain. You laugh at jokes that don’t land, nod at opinions you don’t believe, and master the facial expression that says “I’m doing great, thanks.” It’s a crowd favorite — pairs well with any occasion.

I’ve heard that honesty sets you free. It does, right before it locks you in a new kind of prison. One where people say things like “you’re overthinking”. It’s comforting to know that the world has such simple solutions for problems it doesn’t have to live with.

Most days start with enthusiasm — the kind they sell in motivational videos. You know the type: “Every day is a new beginning!” But people love beginnings; they sound less terrifying than middles. Middles require maintenance, and maintenance is dull. Endings, of course, are tragic — unless you dress them up as closure, in which case they become inspirational.

There’s a certain beauty in routine — it saves you from thinking too much. You wake up, scroll through other people’s lives, drink coffee that tastes like obligation, and call it productivity. Some call it coping; others call it Tuesday.

I’ve started admiring people who talk like everything is fine. The confidence, the conviction — it’s almost cinematic. You can tell they’ve practiced. I wonder if they look in the mirror before leaving home and say, “Today we’re okay,” the same way people check if their collar is straight.

Time, of course, does its thing. It smooths out sharp memories until they fit comfortably inside your head. You forget the details, but not the texture. Like sandpaper, it doesn’t cut anymore, but it keeps scratching.

People often say, “You look happier these days.” That’s the trick, isn’t it? Looking. You learn how to tilt your head just right when you smile, how to laugh one second longer than you need to. It’s practically choreography. you find your rhythm.

You start making peace with silence. Not the poetic kind — the one that fills rooms and lingers after conversations die mid-sentence. It’s efficient, really. Silence saves you the trouble of explaining what no one is equipped to understand.

Crowds help. They blur the edges of your thoughts. You can stand in a sea of people and feel like part of the noise. Nobody asks questions there. Nobody expects answers. It’s one of the few places where pretending and existing look identical.

There are small victories too — like making it through a day without flinching at a memory. Progress, they call it. I call it selective amnesia with Wi-Fi.

Occasionally, nostalgia shows up uninvited. It has good timing — always when you’re almost okay. You tell yourself it’s harmless, just a quick visit, but it never just visits. It rearranges things, opens drawers you’d closed, whispers “remember?” in the middle of your logic. It’s a menace disguised as sentiment.

The funny thing about forgiveness — everyone recommends it like a vitamin. “Good for the heart,” they say. Sure. But no one mentions the side effects. Forgiveness doesn’t erase, it just stops the fight. You still wake up next to the same old ghost, it just apologizes less.

I’ve stopped searching for reasons. Reasons are overrated. They sound noble, but all they do is make pain look academic. Some things happen, and some things don’t. That’s the plot twist no one prepares you for — the non-event, the quiet exit, the unanswered message that doesn’t even deserve drama.

Life, I’ve noticed, loves balance. It gives you good days, not because you deserve them, but because it’s bored of watching you fall apart. You celebrate them like milestones, post pictures with captions about gratitude, and secretly hope the algorithm rewards your effort.

Sometimes, I wonder if peace is real or just clever marketing. Everyone claims to have found it, but no one seems truly convinced. Maybe peace isn’t a place you arrive at — maybe it’s the moment you stop sending location updates to the past.

The world write articles about resilience, give TED talks about transformation. Nobody wants to hear about maintenance — the everyday art of pretending things make sense. That’s not inspirational, it’s just life, unfiltered and unspectacular.

And yet, there’s a strange comfort in it — this grand act of continuity. You wake up, breathe, survive small embarrassments, attend meetings, wash dishes, smile at strangers. You keep going because that’s what everyone does, and there’s a certain relief in being predictable.

Every once in a while, something genuine slips through — a quiet moment that doesn’t need to be photographed, a conversation that doesn’t need an ending. You almost recognize yourself there, the version of you before the rehearsals began. But it passes. Everything passes. That’s the rule and the mercy.

So yes, things do get better. Not brighter, not clearer — just… manageable. The world doesn’t fix itself for you, but you learn how to adjust the lighting. You become an expert at arranging shadows so they look like depth.

And when people ask how you’re doing, you smile — the perfect, practiced, award-winning smile — and say, “Better than ever.”

They believe you, of course.

After all, you almost believe it too.