Since your childhood your parents, society, demanded too much from you. You had to be the golden child, achieve only success, be the best. Even now, in your early adult life you couldn't give yourself even a moment of time to rest. You justified it with your ambitions, the desire to be someone great, but Damiano saw trauma behind it

"You need to stop."

His voice is sharp, cutting through the haze of exhaustion clinging to your body like a second skin. But you ignore it, fingers still moving—typing, scribbling, pushing past the burn in your eyes, the ache in your skull. "Not now, Damiano."

He exhales sharply. "Then when? When you collapse?" His fingers wrap around your wrist—not rough, not forceful, just there. Steady. Real. His touch sends a shiver up your spine, a reminder that you’re still human, still breakable. "You’re burning yourself out."

You rip your hand away, the loss of contact immediate and stinging. "I don’t have a choice."

His jaw tightens, frustration flashing in his brown eyes. "Yes, you do."

But he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the pressure, the weight of expectations suffocating you. He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like never enough is stitched into your skin.