lovely in all the wrong ways

mornings are the worst.

i learned that early. not in any grand, dramatic sense, but in the quiet repetition of waking before i’m ready, lying still, holding my breath like the day might mistake me for something inanimate and pass me over. it never does. the sun always finds its way through the blinds. thin white lines across the wall, across my skin. gentle. indifferent.

i get up eventually. i always do.

the mirror greets me with the same face. it looks enough like me to pass. i study the eyes first. they’re brown. sometimes they’re tired. sometimes they’re just eyes. the hair falls the way it always has, stubborn in its own familiar pattern. i take stock. everything’s there. and still, it doesn’t add up. there’s something off — a filter misapplied, a rendering error no one else seems to see.

people tell me i’m pretty. they say it like it should answer something. as if beauty were meant to compensate for disconnection. you feel invisible? that’s strange — you’re cute. i hear that and think about all the times my voice has disappeared into a room. all the times i’ve walked home with the wrong kind of silence trailing behind me.

i touch my face. not to admire it — to test it. to see if it gives. it never does. i wait for it to shift into something recognizable, something that feels lived in. i wait to feel like myself. nothing happens.

there’s always been a sense — faint, but steady — that i missed something. like there was a manual for being a person that never made its way to me. i hear people navigate the world with ease, slipping into small talk, jokes, shared glances, and i feel like i’m always watching from just outside the frame. the timing is always a little off. i answer questions two seconds too late. i smile and feel the stiffness in it.

i check my phone. nothing. turn "do not disturb" on, then off. just to be sure. it doesn’t matter.

people think that if you look a certain way, you must have friends. a relationship. a life that moves without friction. they project things onto me i’ve never lived. the truth is: it’s friday morning and no one’s made plans. no one will unless i prompt it. and even then, it feels like i’m asking for inclusion in something that was never meant to include me. like the world was built with an invitation list i didn’t make.

at work, i become background. i know how to do this. nod in the hallway. smile without stopping. answer calls. type emails. no one notices much. which is the point, maybe.

i listen to the office noise — voices drifting through the air, laughter from two desks over, someone humming the latest song that’s gone viral. i don’t know the song. i make a mental note to look it up later. to try and catch up. it’s never enough.

in meetings, i sit near the edge. not out of fear, but out of habit. i open my notebook and pretend to write. i watch the way others speak, how easily their words land. sometimes i try to join in. sometimes the words don’t come out right. when they do, there’s a pause. not long. just long enough to feel it. the kind of silence that folds over itself and keeps moving without you.

i smile. i return to my notes.

i remind myself not to speak unless spoken to. i follow the rule.

it’s easier.

the day goes like this. eventually, it ends.

that night, i go to the bar. i meet up with people who might be friends. the lighting is low. the drinks come fast. alcohol has a way of making things seem manageable. not better. just distant. i laugh. not quite on time, but close enough to blend.

then someone brings up the lunch.

they’re laughing before i understand the context. i piece it together — a detail here, a name there. and then it’s clear. the day she didn’t answer my texts. the day i waited at the café, telling myself it was probably nothing. i remember the way she shrugged it off, said she was running late, didn’t elaborate.

now i see the full picture.

they had been together. all of them. laughing somewhere else while i sat alone, watching the door, watching the time.

i don’t say anything. i sip my drink. i trace the condensation on the glass with my thumb. i listen to the story like it’s about someone else.

on the walk home, the quiet is louder than usual. it clings to the walls when i get inside. i set my phone on the bed. no messages. i don’t expect any. i lie down and feel the cold creep into the floorboards, into me. the kind of cold that doesn’t need wind or winter. the kind that builds from the inside.

i try to picture a life where i’m part of something. where people reach out first. where silence doesn’t feel like an indictment. but the image won’t hold. it slips. it thins. it fades before i can touch it.

i close my eyes. the room settles.

i’m still here.

i’m still not sure what that means.