My drag paths are when I tell my stories casually, thinking they’re normal, until I see my friends’ facial reactions and realize they never were. They trace back to when I was 17, crying in a corner at school, hyperventilating and repeating “I’m only 17,” fully understanding what was happening but being emotionally and mentally suffocated by responsibilities that weren’t meant for someone my age. Adults, even middle-aged people, expected me to be responsible, relied on me, and treated me as their refuge or confidant, without realizing that this was never a normal burden for a 17-year-old to carry.