I learned to focus like my life depended on it— because it did. Eyes scanning for tone shifts, ears tuned to footsteps, heart braced for impact before the door even opened. I became a master of detail: the twitch of a brow, the weight of silence, the way love could vanish mid-sentence. Now I’m older, and the war is over, but my mind still marches. I hyperfocus on crumbs, on crooked frames, on the way someone says “fine” when they mean anything but. I miss jokes. I miss sleep. I miss the version of me who didn’t have to be so damn vigilant. People say “just relax,” but they don’t know that my calm was collateral damage. I’m trying to live, not just survive. But my brain still thinks the world is a battlefield.