I should be happy. I have a roof, a body that breathes, a face that smiles when commanded. I should be happy. People tell me so, as if joy were a switch I forgot to flip. But inside everything is hollow. Laughter slides off me like water on broken glass. Food tastes like dust. Sleep feels like drowning. I should be happy, yet every mirror accuses me, every shadow whispers: ungrateful, weak, wrong. There are people with less than me who still find light. Why can’t I? Why is my chest an endless gray sky that never clears? I should be happy. But I am not. And the shame of that truth cuts deeper than the sadness itself.