I rushed down flights of stairs, heart pounding. I had to find the best place to hide her—the part of me that was still tender, still real. Knowing she wouldn't understand, I locked the small cell. "I'll be back as soon as it's safe," I promised. I couldn't find a way to stay safe and true to myself at the same time. I needed to survive. I hurried back up the stairs and assumed my role—filled with adrenaline, but emptied of my true self. A fog slowly descended, and I forgot how to play, how to smile from my heart, how to truly exist in this world. I was no longer a blaring target, but I was no longer living either. Confused and aching, I tried desperately to fill the void from the outside. I'm certain she cried out for me. But I was so lost, so buried in pain, that I forgot she existed. Life without your inner voice is truly perilous. With each passing year, the weight of betrayal buried me deeper. The more I strove, the further I sank. Until one day, afraid I wouldn't survive another avalanche, I stopped trying to escape. And in the stillness, a voice whispered: "Maybe there's still a way we can live a life we belong in—maybe there's still a way." Her gentle words comforted me. The small, hidden part of me—forgotten but not gone—was still waiting.