You gave everything you had to a world that only took. You kept believing that if you tried harder, if you stayed kind, if you stayed loyal, something would finally change. But it never did. And piece by piece, it broke you. You started to forget who you were before all the noise, before the disappointment, before the constant feeling of not being enough. You thought strength meant never falling apart but in truth, it meant standing up again after you did. People looked at you and saw a failure. A loser. Someone who couldn’t keep up, couldn’t fit in, couldn’t win. But they never saw what it cost you just to survive each day, to keep going when everything inside you was already gone. You call yourself broken, and maybe you are. But broken things still hold history. Cracks are proof that something existed, something real, something that mattered. Maybe you’ll never be the same. Maybe the world will keep calling you a loser. But at least you feel and that means you’re still alive. You’ve lost, you’ve failed, you’ve fallen apart. And yet, here you are breathing, existing, refusing to disappear.