I believe it, but my chest feels empty

Ramadan in our house is loud in the best way, mugs clinking at suhoor, my brother’s sarong scraping the floor as he tiptoes past the kitchen, the kettle that always whistles too early. Some mornings, fajr still smells like cardamom tea and small fingers on my sleeve and my heart swells in a way that makes everything simple. Other mornings, I can recite every line, know every meaning, but my chest is a quiet room. I lead the family dua because someone has to, and I smile while I do it. The dilemma is this: do I keep performing the warmth because they need the anchor, or do I step back and be honest with myself and them? Has anyone else had to choose between keeping the rhythm and admitting the cold?