Every Friday night at 9 PM, after laughing at my boss’s dry jokes and nodding along with colleagues, I lock myself in the office bathroom. I lean against the cold tiles, staring at my reflection in the mirror—mascara slightly smudged, a fake smile still plastered on my face like a cracking mask. I loosen my tight collar until I can finally take a ragged breath. My phone buzzes on the marble sink. It’s a group chat notification: "Great presentation today, you're a rockstar!" My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling. I want to type, "I’m drowning. I haven't slept in three weeks." Instead, I send a cheerful emoji. That is my secret. I am an imposter in my own life. I’ve become so good at playing the role of the "perfect, successful professional" that I don’t know what my real voice sounds like anymore. In every meeting, my heart hammers against my ribs, terrified that someone will look past my polished slides and see the exhausted, broken person inside. Last night, I sat on my kitchen floor at 2 AM, eating cold leftovers straight from the plastic container. The refrigerator buzzed in the dark, a lonely, mechanical sound that matched the emptiness in my chest. I opened a blank document on my phone. The cursor blinked—a tiny, mocking heartbeat. I wrote three words: "I am tired."