I still catch myself bracing for the bottom to drop out, even though it hasn't in a long time. Like muscle memory from a past life. The body remembers trauma long after the mind has moved on. A phantom limb of anxiety, always twitching, even in moments of perfect calm. The ground can feel solid for years, and then a certain kind of wind blows and I'm a sapling again, bending double, waiting for the snap. It’s not a fear of failing, but a fear of believing I ever actually succeeded. I swear, the fancier the apartment, the louder the inner screaming that it's all going to vanish. Like I'm just borrowing happiness, and the repo man is always lurking around the corner.