The city swallows you whole. Its streets pulse with bodies that never look up, voices that blur into an endless hum, faces that pass without memory. You learn to walk among them like one of their own, carrying the mask you’ve taught yourself to wear. They see only what you allow them to see—a polished outline, a version safe enough to be accepted, hollow enough not to raise suspicion. But beneath it, the truth stirs. There was a time you had a passion that burned brighter than this city’s lights, a force that defined you more than names or titles ever could. You left it behind, because here, such a fire is not welcomed. It is dangerous. To show it would be to reveal a self too raw, too unguarded—something that terrifies not only them, but you as well. So you keep it locked away. You smile at strangers, nod at colleagues, play the role of someone ordinary, while inside, the part of you that once lived so fiercely waits in silence. You know if you ever let it out, if you ever broke the cage and set it free, it would consume everything. It would not be tolerated. And on that day, the city would turn on you, and you would never walk its streets again. So you bury yourself in the rhythm of the crowd, disappearing into its comfortless anonymity. To them, you are just another face. To yourself, you are both prisoner and guard, standing watch over the secret that will never see the light. Because survival here does not mean being who you are. It means being who they can bear to look at.