"What happened?"

"Are you OK?"

"Are you all right?" A warm hand runs down my back.

Once I don't paint my face and they see me as sick, weak and tired.

As long as you look different, people start to notice you.

Ask.

Suddenly, they care for you.

But why only when you hit the rock bottom?

Maybe they're right.

Maybe I'm really weak, too weak. . .