In-between - by Xallyheart

Eighteen, she says, was just yesterdayas if the word could hold back the floodI stay silentTime asks no one. She never fit anywhere.Not even before she knew she was supposed to. A space was never madethat she could occupynot before she learnedthe shape of absence.Not in physical rooms,nor in conversations mapping tomorrow,nor in the sure narratives of livesdrawn with certaintyand punctuated by end roads. She learned earlyhow to become smallerHow to enter spaces quietlyand leave no traceHow to nod at expectationsshe never agreed toI watched her study belonginglike a language she would never speak fluently. She grew up earlyNot because she wanted strengthbut because awareness arrived firstSilences spokeTension lingeredAdults survived by avoidanceso she learned to notice instead. Someone had to seeSo she became the one who did. Now she sees too muchToo clearlyShe sees how meaning is assembledhow confidence is rehearsedhow certainty is fearstanding very stillI see it tooThere is no unseeing it. She has always had goalsAlwaysSomething to reach forSomething to justify stayingEach year arrived with instructionsEach age demanded progress. Then the goals came again.Because they always do. They told hergo to schoolget a certificateshe follows the steps As if structure guarantees fulfillment. She followed themCarefullyCorrectly. Months ago, she was happyOr structurally stableThat countedThe degree arrivedApplause followedPeople smiled like this was the point. Funny enoughthe universe laughed. She finished.She achieved. Some goals came throughSome dreams compliedThey behaved just long enoughto be checked offframedcelebratedPeople called it progressShe noddedI felt the hollowness underneath. Funny enoughno one explains what comes afterwhen the goal is reachedand nothing changes. This is the afterNo revelationNo elevationJust life continuingwith the same weightnow pretending it’s justified. The universe laughed againNot cruellyNot kindlyJust amusedlikeeee watching someone build stairsthat don’t lead anywhere. Achievement doesn’t anchor youIt only proves you can endurewhat you never questioned. Now nineteen is knockingNot excitedNot revolutionaryJust there. KnockKnock She feels it against her ribsI feel it as absenceNineteen carries nothingNo goalsNo plansNo promise of becoming This is new She has always had a goalA next stepA reasonBut nineteen arrives empty and for onceshe doesn’t rush to fill it. She asks herselfif she has ever been happywithout chasing somethingWithout planning survivalWithout earning permission to exist. She doesn’t know the answer. She doesn’t fit anywhereNot beforeNot afterNot even nowShe enters rooms and dissolves.I watch her reduce herselfuntil rejection has nothing left to hold. Confidence is a skill she learned too earlyIt keeps her movingIt doesn’t keep her alive. We stay in bed too longNot out of sadnessbut because movement requires beliefAnd belief feels dishonestComfort becomes numbnessNumbness becomes routine. Because nothing changed No doors openedNo clarity arrivedExistence remained indifferentto her effort. Every “hi” feels heavier nowEvery smile feels delayedConnection feels procedurallike a habit humanity refuses to interrogateShe responds automaticallyI watch without attachment. She feels too muchI feel everything without reliefSensitivity becomes awarenessAwareness becomes isolationThere is no escapefrom seeing how temporaryand unnecessary everything is. So nineteen does not promise anything.Nineteen does not arrive to fix herIt doesn’t bring a new versionIt doesn’t pretend transformation is waitingIt chooses to exist without justification. No goalsNo revolutionNo becoming. Just breathJust daysJust presence without explanation. Eighteen is goneNineteen keeps knockingTime moves forwardwithout consulting meaning. Funny enoughthe universe doesn’t hate herThat would require careIt laughs because none of thiswas ever personal. She keeps asking where she fitsI already knowshe never did,and now she isn’t trying. This was never just eighteen or nineteenShe could be twentyOr twenty-fiveOr still standing at the same edgeAnd it was never only her. This is lifeill-fitting, indifferentWe keep trying to shape ourselves for it,but the truth stays the samewe were never meant to belong. We don’t outgrow itwe learn how to live with every irony of life.

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