They say it like it's true.
"All you do is sit on your phone."
Like I didn't wake up before the sun today.
Like I didn't drag myself to lifting at 6 a.m., pushing through reps with sore arms and heavy legs.
Like I didn't go straight into volleyball practice right after — sprinting, diving, jumping — until I could barely breathe.
It's summer.
But for me, there's no break.
No pause. No rest. No silence.
After practice, I come home — but the work doesn't stop.
Because I'm the oldest.
The second parent. The babysitter. The one who's always "supposed to know better."
I take care of my siblings.
I do the chores. I try my best.
But it's never enough.
"You didn't wipe the counters."
"You forgot the trash."
"We do all this for you, and you can't even do this one thing?"
And then, like I'm not already drained, I go to basketball at night.
Open gym. Shooting. Running. Drills.
For a sport I don't even love anymore.
Because the truth is…
I hate basketball.
But my dad won't let me quit.
He says I'll regret it.
He says I need to push through.
He says I'm lucky.
But it doesn't feel like luck.
It feels like a cage.
And when I finally sit down — just to catch my breath —
They come for me again.
"You're lazy."
"You're always on your phone."
"You don't do anything around here."
Like I haven't already given everything I have.
They talk about how much they do for me.
But no one ever sees what I do.
No one sees the hours I give away to things I didn't even choose.
No one sees that when I close my bedroom door, I cry.
Quietly.
Silently.
Because I don't want anyone to hear.
Because I don't want to start another fight.
Because I don't even know how to explain this pain without being told I'm "too sensitive."
At night, I can't sleep.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, overthinking everything.
Every word I didn't say.
Every chore I didn't do "right."
Every time I felt like I failed.
And the anxiety wraps around me like a blanket I can't rip off.
I'm tired.
Tired in a way that even sleep can't fix.
And I want to quit.
Not life — just the things that hurt.
The pressure. The yelling. The pretending. The basketball.
But I can't.
Because no one will let me.
So I cry.
Quietly.
Alone.
And I wake up the next day, pretending again.
Pretending I'm fine.
Pretending I'm strong.
Pretending like I don't want to just run away from everything.
I don't want sympathy.
I just want someone to see me.
To really see me.
And say,
"You've done enough."
"You don't have to keep breaking to make us proud."
"You can rest now."
But no one says it.
So I keep going.
And every night, I fall asleep a little emptier than the day before.