"... I'm happy. I really am." It seems like I'm always repeating these words. Everywhere I go. To everyone. They take it sometimes. Other times they look at me with doubt in their eyes. But they can't know what lies underneath it all. They can't know the truth. So I continue to lie and make up stories. Even though I know it's slowly killing me and even though one day I'll regret it more than I ever want to think. They'll never know. Because I know what they'll say. And I know what they'll think. They can't know...
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