i keep watching people speak like the world was made to fit in their hands. they tell their stories with so much certainty, as if every moment belongs to them, as if the weight of it all never makes them doubt.
when i try, my voice still startles me. i pull back mid-sentence, soften the edges, pretend it doesn’t matter that much. i don’t want to seem like i’m asking for too much space. i don’t want the feeling to look messy.
it isn’t anger. it’s quieter than that. a private ache that sits behind my ribs, the kind that makes me wonder if i’m allowed to take up any room at all. sometimes i say something small just to see if anyone notices, then immediately wish i hadn’t.
i feel like i’m living inside a story someone else started writing, and i’m not sure where my part begins.
— ???
