scripted

Everyone in the crowded hallways follows a script. They laugh at the same cues, repeat the same stories, and play their expected roles flawlessly. For years, I was the director of the scene, effortlessly mirroring exactly what people wanted to see. Until a single, clumsy fall shattered the illusion. Amid a crowd that didn't care enough to look, a girl with profoundly tired eyes pulled me up and walked away without a second glance. Her presence didn't fit the script. She didn't calculate, she didn't perform, and she saw right through the mask down to the empty space underneath. Now, the automatic pilot is dead, and the carefully rehearsed lines have turned to ash. But as the system collapses, I'm left facing the most terrifying reality of all: Once you step off the stage, who are you supposed to be?