It’s a Tuesday morning. Coffee in hand. A friend you haven’t seen in a while crosses paths with you and asks how you’re doing.

The honest answer is somewhere between tired, lonely, and not sure I’m doing the right thing with my life. The version of you under the version you show.

Three words. Said a thousand times by a thousand versions of you. They watch you nod. They say something kind back. The conversation moves on. You’re a little quieter for the rest of it, though no one notices.

You don’t know it yet, but tonight, alone, you’ll think about that exchange. Not because it was important. Because it wasn’t. And because you’ll feel the small distance it put between you and someone who would have actually listened.

The small lies aren’t dangerous because of what they hide. They’re dangerous because of what they normalize. Every “I’m fine” that wasn’t true is a brick in a wall between you and the people who would have helped — if you’d let them. Worse: it’s a brick in the wall between you and yourself.

The fleas in the jar weren’t lying to anyone but themselves. After enough time, the lid wasn’t even there anymore. The fleas just kept living small. The jar removed itself; the limit stayed.