the habit of fine

I say it often. I'm fine. And mostly I am. The words become a reflex. A way to deflect concern. To move the conversation along. It's not that I'm not fine. It's just that fine is a narrow ledge. I stand on it and look out. At the world below. At the things I've left behind. I think about all the times I've said it. Meant it. Not meant it. The words start to feel like a currency. Devalued by overuse. I try to be more mindful. To choose my words with care. But even now. Even as I think about it. I find myself saying it again. I'm fine. The words feel like a sigh. A surrender. A refusal to go further. To dig deeper. I'm fine. For now. For today. Maybe tomorrow I'll say it again. And mean it. Almost.