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14
You'll be FINE
<p><span ;="">A COLLECTION OF VIGNETTES</span><br/><br/><br/><br/><span ;="" style="font-size:20px"><strong>You'll be FINE</strong></span>
<br/><br/><span ;="">“Fine.” A word so slight, so deceptively benign, yet it carries within its syllables an entire architecture of irony. The utterance drips with the weight of sarcasm, cloaked in the veneer of consolation, yet never truly consoling. It masquerades as balm, but burns like salt upon an open wound.</span>
<br/><br/><span ;="">Each time this phrase reaches my ears, I cannot help but recoil, for it pierces rather than soothes. It does not heal it represses. It is less a gesture of comfort than a command for silence, a disguised injunction to suffocate one’s grief, to render invisible the fractures of the soul. “You’ll be fine” is the polite vocabulary of dismissal, the tender weapon of those too weary or too unwilling to dwell in another’s pain.</span>
<br/><br/><span ;="">It lands upon the heart like a blade drawn slowly, each repetition a subtle incision. Its cadence is not that of hope, but of negation. Instead of opening a door toward solace, it shuts the very possibility of being heard.</span>
<br/><br/><span ;="">And so I ask, not rhetorically but with the weight of my very being: will I truly be fine? Or is this merely the illusion of promise, the empty scaffolding erected to shield others from my storm? What is the duration of this supposed “fineness”? Days? Years? A lifetime spent waiting for the word to become flesh?</span>
<br/><br/><span ;="">The cruelty of “You’ll be fine” is that it leaves me suspended half-believing, half-condemned haunted by the question of whether the future it foretells is ever meant to arrive.</span><br/><br/></p>
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