I watched myself walk into the room again today, held the door, said the name, did the thing with my face — that particular arrangement of features that reads as okay, as present, as someone who woke up and chose to engage — And everyone believed it. And I stood behind my own eyes and received it, the warmth, the inclusion, the sense that I'd achieved it — whatever it is — and I smiled like I conceived it, like I invented this version of me and believed it more than the one that drove here on autopilot, that answered three emails on instinct and somehow filed it under normal day — the one that goes quietly violet in the fluorescent hum of the open plan, stays silent, stays calibrated, stays legible, stays compliant — Great meeting. Really valuable contribution. And I think — thank you — and I think — was that me — and I think — which part was genuine — and I think — does it matter if nobody can see the difference — and I think — can I? I am so legible. I am everyone's favorite edition of me — digestible, credible, performing warmth at the correct frequency — I am so legible. I am fluent in the language of your needs, I translate myself into something receivable and hand it over like it isn't costing me — And you love her. You love her so much. I just wish I knew her well enough to keep in touch. Here is a partial inventory of things I did today that looked like personality but felt like a relay race where I'm every runner — the authentic display of interest in your weekend, the perfectly weighted okay when you asked how I'm doing — the emotional soufflé I whipped up in the half-second between your question and my face — I laughed at something. I don't know if it was funny. I don't know if I felt it or just recognized the runway for the appropriate response and landed — sunny- side up, well-adjusted, not too much and not uncanny — Except. Except there's a version of me watching from the rafters, making notes, two beats behind, following after every response with a clipboard — was that laughter genuine or estimated — was that warmth or just the chapter where the protagonist seems fine and the disaster is still three scenes out — is anyone reading faster than I'm writing — Can anyone tell I'm reciting? The funniest part — and I do think it's funny, in the way that a bruise is funny when it's in a stupid place — is that I'm good at it. Genuinely, measurably good. People find me warm. Easy. Refreshingly self-aware. I have been described as grounding. I don't know what that means for the ground. I just know that I drove home and sat in the car for eleven minutes and couldn't remember a single thing I actually felt today. Just the shape of what feeling looks like. Just the outline. Filled in with whatever color reads best in the room. I am so legible. I am everyone's favorite edition of me — digestible, credible, performing warmth at the correct frequency — I am so legible. I am fluent in the language of your needs — But somewhere in the translation something dropped, some frequency too quiet for the room, some original transmission that I swapped for something cleaner, something tuned — And now I'm standing in the static of the signal I replaced trying to remember what I sounded like before I learned to take up the correct amount of space. You were so on today. Yeah. ...I know.
