There is a version of me that still shows up.

He answers messages. Records the episode. Washes the mug. Pays the bill. Keeps the conversation going.

From the outside, nothing is wrong. Everything is functioning.

But inside, it feels like running on a battery that never quite reaches full charge.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not collapse. It’s not crisis. It’s just… worn.

A low, steady depletion.

The strange thing about being worn down is that you can still be capable. You can still produce. You can still think clearly. You can still appear composed. In fact, you might even do good work.

But it costs more.

Small tasks require more negotiation. Noise feels sharper. Decisions feel heavier. Social interaction drains faster than it replenishes.

You begin rationing yourself quietly.

You calculate how much energy this call will take. How much the drive will cost. Whether you can afford the conversation.

And still — you function.

You show up to dinner. You press record. You reply politely. You keep the system running.

No one sees the internal maths.

Functioning while worn down isn’t weakness. It isn’t laziness. It isn’t fragility.

It’s endurance without spectacle.

It’s getting through the day without applause. It’s holding structure when you’d rather power down.

There’s a discipline in it. A quiet resilience.

But there’s also honesty needed.

Because functioning is not the same as thriving. And coping is not the same as being okay.

Some days, the most accurate description isn’t “I’m fine.” It’s “I’m still operating.”

And that counts.

Not as a triumph. Not as a failure.

Just as truth.