She was tired before she stood up.

Breah sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, phone in hand. The to-do list glowed back at her—seven items, manageable on paper. But her chest already felt compressed, her breath shallow.

It wasn’t the list.

She stood, moved to the kitchen, started coffee. While the machine hissed and gurgled, her mind inventoried: the email she needed to follow up on, the question her sister had asked three days ago, the detail she’d promised to check for a colleague, the appointment she should probably reschedule but hadn’t.

None of it urgent. All of it humming.

* * *

By nine-thirty, she’d crossed off two tasks. The exhaustion had deepened.

She stopped. Put her pen down. Looked at the clock.

How am I this tired already?

The question sat there, waiting. She let her eyes close. Felt the weight in her shoulders, the tightness behind her sternum.

Not the tasks. The other thing. The invisible layer beneath them.

She opened her notes app, started typing—not to plan, just to see it:

Track everyone’s mood. Remember who needs what. Fill the silence when it gets awkward. Notice what’s unsaid. Check if anyone needs help. Keep the details straight. Don’t drop anything. Don’t forget. Don’t let them down.

The list appeared—longer than the one she’d started with.

She stared at the words. Her breath dropped lower in her chest.

This is what I’m carrying.

* * *

The phone buzzed. A text from Maya: “Quick question—do you remember the name of that place we went?”

Breah’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Normally she’d already be searching her memory, pulling up the answer, being helpful.

Instead, she paused.

Typed: “Not off the top of my head—can I get back to you later?”

Her thumb hesitated over send. The familiar tug: Just look it up. It’ll take two minutes.

She sent it anyway.

The response came back immediately: “No worries! I’ll check my photos.”

Breah set the phone down. Felt something shift in her chest—not relief exactly, but space. A small gap where the pressure had been.

She looked back at her invisible list. The exhaustion was still there, but it had stopped advancing.

She wasn’t going to clear it today. Maybe not tomorrow. But she could see it now—the silent agreement she’d made to carry things that weren’t hers to hold.

Seeing it was enough for now.

She returned to her actual list. Seven items. Still there. But the day felt longer than it had an hour ago.