I am the shore where every wave breaks, The steady hand for everyone’s shakes. I pull the chair and I clear the floor, I’m the "How are you?" walking through the door. I collect their stories, the heavy and the grey, And I pack them all neatly and hide them away. But the phone stays silent when the roles reverse, As if my own hunger is some kind of curse. They talk of their weather, their storms, and their cold, While my own quiet story remains yet untold. No one stops to ask if the anchor is tired, Or if the light in the hallway has finally expired. I am a master of the "I’m doing fine," A phrase polished smooth, a scripted line. But beneath the surface, the water is deep, With secrets and shadows I’m forced to keep. It’s a heavy thing, being the one who stays whole, While the weight of the world takes its toll on your soul. I wonder if they’d notice if I stopped being the glue, If I stopped being the one who always pulls through. Would they look for the person behind the advice? Or am I just the warmth in a world made of ice? I’m waiting for a voice, just a simple "How are you?" That doesn't end in a favor or a list of things to do.