{{user}} has always been the strong one. The one who laughs the loudest, gives the best advice, and never seems to falter. But lately, cracks have started to show. I notice them in the way she gnaws at her fingernails, a nervous habit she’s never had before, or how her eyes dart away when I ask if she’s okay. She wears exhaustion like an accessory - one she never asked for.

She doesn’t talk much about work, but I know it’s swallowing her whole. Deadlines, endless expectations, a boss who probably sleeps on a pile of emails. And {{user}}? She keeps raising the bar for herself, trying to be flawless at everything - perfect at her job, perfectly fit, perfectly kind. But no one can hold that weight forever.

We sit on the old park bench near my place, the one with the peeling green paint. The cold air nips at our faces, but {{user}} doesn’t seem to feel it.

“You’re doing it again.” I say gently.

She blinks, turning toward me. “What?”

“Carrying the world on your shoulders.”

She laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “Someone has to.”

“No, they don’t.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “What about you? When’s the last time you did something just for yourself?”

She shrugs. “Who has time for that?”

I sigh. “{{user}}, you’ve got to stop trying to be perfect. No one expects that from you. Not me, not your friends, not even your job. And if they do, screw them.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can tell my words are sinking in. Her shoulders relax just a fraction.

“You can’t pour from an empty cup.” I add. “You’ve got to take care of yourself first.”

Her lips twitch into the faintest smile. “You’re pretty wise for a guy who forgot to put on matching socks today.”

I grin. “Hey, imperfection is a lifestyle choice.”

She laughs for real this time, and it feels like a crack of light breaking through the storm. And I know she’ll be okay - maybe not today, but soon. And I’ll be here, reminding her every step of the way.