I am the fixer.
The unbroken facade in a world of splintered glass,
the calm voice when everything cracks around me.
You think it’s strength.
I let you think it’s strength.

I am the one you turn to when the storm rages.
You place your wreckage in my hands,
and I rebuild it piece by jagged piece,
ignoring how the shards slice through my fingers.

I never ask for thanks.
Not because I don’t want it,
but because I’ve learned that needing
is dangerous.
Needing leaves you empty.

So I let the silence speak for me.
Do you hear it?
No.
Of course you don’t.
It’s buried beneath your cries for help,
your endless, desperate need for me to save you.

I save you.
Every time.
But I am crumbling,
in the quiet corners of my mind where no one looks.
I patch your wounds while my own go untended,
wrap you in comfort
as my insides twist with a pain I can’t explain.

Do you see it?
The flicker beneath the surface,
the weight I carry with no one to share it?
No.
Of course you don’t.

Because I am the fixer.
And fixers aren’t supposed to fall apart.
Fixers aren’t supposed to need.

But if you ever wondered—
just for a moment—
what lies beneath the surface,
you might see the cracks I’ve hidden so well.
You might hear the unspoken words
caught in my throat,
choking me slowly.

I don’t cry.
Not because I don’t feel,
but because tears are invitations
no one answers.

So I wait.
For what, I’m not even sure.
A hand that never reaches.
A voice that never asks.
A moment when someone might look—
really look—
and see me.

But they never do.
Because I’ve trained them well.
Taught them that I am untouchable,
unshakable,
whole.

And who would question that?
Who would dare think the fixer
needs fixing too?

So I stay.
And I fix.
And I carry the weight of it all,
praying—though I’d never admit it—
for someone to notice.

For someone to pull me from the edge
before the cracks split open
and I disappear.