At a young age, I learned to say that I’m fine whenever someone asked how I was doing. Years later, I still do this and I truly believe that I’m fine. When I am being basically consumed by stress, I’m still fine. Even when my one passion in high school has ended, I’m fine. I may have cried during, but I’m fine. Even when my father suddenly wants to be a part of my life for the first time in ten years, I’m fine. I’m just perfect.

Every once and awhile, I’ll break down. I’ll have a moment of tears, but I’m fine. It’s natural. It's healthy, right? I’m still fine. My mom doesn’t believe me when I say just how fine I am. She thinks I’m lying but I’m not. I’m really fine. I just hope she doesn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. My sister hugs me. Why? She doesn’t think I’m fine either. Sure, she knows me better than anyone, but that doesn’t mean she knows everything. I pray that she doesn’t feel my chest heaving. My friends constantly ask how I’m doing. I still say I’m fine. They don’t believe me, either. They tell my parents. Everyone I care about is in agreement that I’m not fine. They think that these past few months has impacted me more than I think. They think I’m “not processing everything, because it all happened so fast.” They are all crazy and don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t know me. My mom is getting me a therapist. At least once I start therapy, we will all realize just how fine I am. I do, however, wonder if the therapist will have tissues - for my allergies, not because I’ll be crying. You wanna know why I won’t be crying? Because I’m fine.