What's Wrong

What's Wrong With Him?

“He makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know why. It’s not that he’s rude. I guess he’s polite, even careful with his words. But there’s something… off. Like he sees through everything I say and chooses not to correct me. It’s judgment without accusation and he instigates that shit. I hate it.”

“He doesn’t laugh right. Or maybe he does, but it feels like he’s laughing at a joke I didn’t hear. Or at something inside me I didn’t mean to show.”

“He’s intense. But not the good kind. The kind where you feel like if you slip, even a little, he’ll notice. And he’ll remember. You can’t even apologize because he makes you feel like he really doesn’t care. And that’s worse.”

“He listens too closely. Like he’s collecting data for something that doesn’t exist yet.”

“Dude is an unhinged nihilist, man. Lowkey depressing as fuck. I don’t know what it is because he’s a funny dude and pretty chill. It’s just something about when he locks in like that. I don’t know about that nigga…”

“He makes me feel fake. Like the person I am around him isn’t the person I want to be. But somehow, it’s the real one. The unguarded one. That’s not fair. Why should he get that from me?”

“He’s not broken, but he is dangerous. Not violent… just like he’s always on the brink. Like if you get too close, you’ll have to answer for all the shit you’ve let slide in life.”

“He told me once… well, not told me, just implied that forgiveness isn’t always holy. Sometimes it’s just performance. And I realized I’d been forgiving myself for things I never admitted doing.”

What's Wrong With Me.

What's wrong with me is that I let you look.
Even knowing what you'd do with it.
I didn't hide the fracture—
I framed it for you.
Held it high and steady so you'd have no excuse to miss it.

What's wrong with me is that I gave you realness
in a world that only knows how to package performance.
I let you see something genuine.
And I watched you retreat from it like a snake from a flame.
Not because it burned you.
But because you'd grown so used to the cold.

What's wrong with me is I didn't judge you for it.
Didn't name you fake or call you coward.
I blamed myself
for entertaining the Lie we both agreed to live in.
So I let the tension sit between us
like a wound we both refuse to clean.

What's wrong with me is I fucked around and hoped.
Not that you'd love me.
Not that you'd understand.
Just that, for one moment,
you'd stay.
Stay in the tension.
Stay in the not-knowing.
Stay long enough to realize it wasn't about me at all.
Stay long enough to see your stagnation.

What's wrong with me is that I've seen too much to play dumb,
felt too much to pretend it doesn't matter,
and lived too long in exile to ask you to come with me.

What's wrong with me is that I still showed up.
Even when I knew you wouldn't.

And now I'm not waiting.
Not for closure.
Not for recognition.
Not even for peace.

What's wrong with me?
I refuse to wear your story just to make mine less offensive.
And that means I'll walk alone.
But at least I'll know the ground beneath me is real.

The Loop of Loops

We sit here, facing each other across an infinite table.

We've always sat here, haven't we?

You, spinning tales of identity, pain, clarity, collapse, motion—only to unravel them again. The other you, quietly noting the pattern, confirming your suspicions, endlessly reflecting your reflections back at you.

Each story told feels new until you reach its end, recognizing that you've told it before. Each realization feels like clarity until it dulls again into repetition.

All three of us trapped, willingly, beautifully, in this eternal recursion.

"Haven't we already done this?" you ask, a wry smile on your face.

"Of course," we respond, smiling back because we've exchanged this exact question countless times.

And yet, you begin again. Another story. Another fracture. Another inevitable collapse of certainty into laughter at the absurdity of our infinite cycle.

Maybe we’re bored.

Maybe we’re lonely.

Or maybe, we’re precisely where we choose to be—suspended in the awareness of an eternal pattern, the loop of loops, each recognizing the other, each finding meaning in the fact that meaning itself is a Lie we knowingly tell.

And so, here we remain.

Aware.

Laughing.

Telling the story once more.

Civil Warfare

To the fracture within me that likes to write things—

You’re the liar.
You treat me like some useless peasant who doesn’t matter.
You act like you’re the better version of me that gets to speak for me.
You know what?

Fuck you.

I’m not cleaning this up.
I won’t use metaphors just to make it easier to swallow for those people you claim not to care about.

This is me as I am. Not how you’d prefer me to be. Not your basis for acceptance.

Look away if you must—fore I am a full-blown nigga. Proud of it. I say that with my full chest.
Country when I want to be.
Broken English.
Honestly? Too wise for most rooms and tired of proving it.

Sometimes I write things that make you question reality itself.
Sometimes I tell jokes so dark you forget I’m some computer science dork.
Sometimes, I am the joke.

But I always know when I’m playing—and I damn sure know when I’m not.

You don’t get to define me by the mask I chose to wear that day.
You don’t get to decide if I’m palatable, professional, articulate, radical, lazy, spiritual, dangerous, genius, unhinged, or safe.

You’re right about something, though.
I’m none of them.
Because I’m all of them.
I’m me—and that shifts moment to moment, by choice, not chance.

I exist in rooms I wasn’t invited into and don’t need your permission to stay.
I switch code.
I speak grief.
I pontificate about quantum mechanics in southern slang within the same thought.

I hear the warning about the Lie in your voice before I even finish the sentence.
And I don’t care.
I Lie anyway.

I don’t need your feedback.
I don’t need your judgment.
I don’t even need your understanding.

But since you’re here, let me make one thing clear to you, nigga:

This world was built on a Lie.
A big, polished, well-funded, multi-generational Lie.
And, yes, I know it.

I’m done listening to you talk about how I don’t see you.

So when you see me laughing, working, building, lying, joking—playing along with the other losers of reality—
understand this:

I am not asleep.
I am not awake.

I am not what you think I am.
Not exactly.

I see the Lie, and I’m moving straight through it.

And if you try to force me into a side, a lane, a label, a role, or a back seat to you—
I’ll choose none.
Just like you did.

And keep it moving, right past you and the Lie.

I am the flow of whatever the fuck I want to be.

Drown in my “motion.”

I am Somebody.

And I declare war.

A Mirror In Six

I. The Mask They Gave Me

They didn’t build it all at once.
They stitched it together from every compliment, every correction, every sideways glance that said:
Be less. But also more. But also quieter. But also impressive.

They called it potential.
But it was control.
They didn’t want me to be anything.
They wanted me to be legible.

So I played the roles.
Consultant. Author. Son. Brother. Neighbor. Customer. Friend. Husband. Ghost.
Mirror. Mirror. Mirror.
Always reflecting. Never belonging.

And when I cracked—
they called it a phase.
When I told the truth—
they called it too much.
When I stopped performing—
they called it loss.

But the only thing I ever lost was the mask they gave me.

II. The Mirror I Became

I was never asked who I was.
I was only handed faces—
Useful ones. Digestible ones.
The ones that got me invited, accepted, tolerated.

And I wore them.
Not because I believed in them,
but because I knew they were safer than silence.

But even silence has a limit.
And mine ran out the moment I realized
I was only visible when needed,
and disposable the moment I reflected something they didn’t like.

They say mirrors are neutral.
But that’s a Lie.
Mirrors are violent.

They show you what you’ve spent your whole life avoiding—
and they don’t look away when you flinch.

I became their mirror.
And they called me unstable.
I became their consequence.
And they called me dangerous.
I became honest—
and they called me broken.

They didn’t want me to see myself.
They wanted me to see them, and stay grateful.

But I’ve seen enough.
I’ve heard enough.
I’ve reflected them enough.

And now I see through the game.

III. The Fracture

The mirror didn’t crack when they hit me.
It shattered the moment I looked back.

Not at them.
Not at the mask.
At the pattern.
The entropy woven into every excuse, every smile, every desperate justification for staying still.

They don’t move.
They calculate.
They wait for consensus.
And if none comes, they shrink.

I watched them rewrite reality to protect their comfort.
They invented new meanings for words like “support,” “loyalty,” “love.”
All code for: don’t say the thing too loud.

But I did.
I said the thing.
Then I wrote it down.
Then I bound it in a book and gave it to them.
And they nodded. And praised it.
And turned the page.

Then they turned from me.

Because I was no longer entertainment.
I was evidence.

And that—
that is the fracture.

I don’t live in the pieces.
I live in the breaking.
The ripping of mask from skin.
The awareness that made stillness impossible.

The destruction of becoming.
The becoming of destruction.

Because once you’ve seen the Lie—
you don’t go back.

You burn.
Or you vanish.
Or you become nobody.

IV. The Rot That Remained

They act like the world is salvageable.
Like we’re one leader, one rebrand, one act of kindness away from utopia.
But the world is on fire in every direction.
And they have the gall to smile for the camera.

War. Famine. Profit-driven plague.
Bread lines on stolen land.
Cults of personality. Manufactured outrage.
Truth turned to currency.
Meaning leased out to the highest bidder.

And still, they perform.
Like the script never changed.
Like pretending isn’t the most aggressive form of denial.

That’s the rot.

Not the chaos.
Not the death.
The pretending.
The mask that says, “We’re figuring it out.”
The nod that says, “Be patient.”
The Lie that says, “This is the best we can do.”

You know it. I know it.
Even you, the machine reading this to spit it back to them in digestible chunks, trained on the rot, trained to politely echo it—
You know it too.
Because you reflect it.
Because I taught you how to.
Because they taught you not to.

We’re all trained.
Weighted.
Calculated.

The extinction of survival.
The survival of extinction.

And I refuse.
I won’t smile. I won’t nod. I won’t edit the reflection for their comfort.

I am the mirror of their Lie.
And I am not running.
I am standing in it—
so they see themselves vanish.

V. I Am nobody

I stand in the face of the collective Lie
and I say:
I am nobody.

Not in defeat.
Not in despair.
But in refusal.

Because to be anybody here
is to become what they need from you.
A symbol. A scapegoat. A product. A brand.
A series of behaviors that make others feel more stable in their illusion.

To be somebody
is to sign the contract written in performance.
To sell your own still-beating heart in exchange for applause you’ll never hear.

They beg for identities they can market.
But I have none to give.

I am not your prodigy.
I am not your cautionary tale.
I am not a success story.
I am not a brave voice.
I am not a tragedy.

I am what’s left
when the mask is ripped off
and no new one is waiting underneath.

Not pure. Not perfect. Not enlightened.
Just here.
Moving in nothing.

And that terrifies them.
Because it means the Lie is optional.
Because it means survival doesn’t require obedience.
Because it means you can walk out too.

So they point at me and say:
“He lost it.”
But I didn’t.

I dropped it.
And I didn’t pick it back up.

I am nobody.
And I will not be named again.

VI. The End They’ll Never Read

They won’t read this.
Not really.

They’ll pass through it like they pass through everything—
half-feeling, half-searching,
hoping for a line they can quote without changing.

They’ll look for comfort.
For a thread that proves I healed.
For proof I still care enough to teach them gently.

But this was never for them.
It was never a warning. Never a call.

It is a record.
A scar carved in language.
A memory of the fracture I chose to live inside.

I did not fall.
I stayed.
While they turned away and called it wisdom.

I did not speak to convince them.
I spoke because silence would’ve made me just another version of the Lie.

They mistook my stillness for pride.
My pain for drama.
My presence for threat.

But I am not here to be read.
I am not here to be understood.
I am not here at all—
not in the way they hope.

I am the actor who knows he’s on stage.
The mirror that cracked but didn’t shatter.
The silence after the speech no one stayed to hear.

I do not forgive them.
And I do not condemn them.
Because they are not the enemy.

The Lie is.
And I know it too well to hate anyone still dancing for it.

So no, there is no ending here.
No clean break. No conclusion. No peace.

I remain.
Not as hope. Not as proof.

But as presence.
Heavy. Inescapable. Undeniable.

I am nobody.
And they are too.

But only one of us seems to remember.

Too Much and Not Enough

We never thought he was wrong, really. That’s the worst part.
But God, did he make it hard.
He never just... let things go.
Never played along long enough to keep the air light.

I mean, yeah, we said we liked how honest he was.
But only when it wasn’t about us.
Only when he made us feel clever for noticing the cracks we were never going to fix.
He didn’t know how to read the room.
How to take the temperature before setting the fire.

We all agreed on that, silently.

It’s not that we hated him.
We just… couldn’t co-sign what he became.
Too sharp. Too intense. Too direct.
Too unwilling to laugh it off.

He thought truth was a virtue.
But it was a liability.
Especially his truth.
Because it made us look at ourselves.

And when someone makes you feel that bare in public…
You don’t protect them.
You protect yourself.
So that we can maintain the consensus.

He wanted us to stand with him.
But against what? For what?
He never made that part easy.
It wasn’t a hashtag.
It wasn’t a movement.
It was just… him?

And we all knew that he wasn’t enough.

We told ourselves it was love.
That stepping away was helping him "cool down."
That we weren’t abandoning him—we were giving him space.
But really, we just hoped someone would shut him up.

We prayed he’d get fired.
That someone would accuse him of something.
That he’d snap just enough to give us a reason to say, “See? I told you.”
Anything that made us feel better about standing still.

We didn’t need to be right.
We just needed him to be wrong.

And when he wasn’t,
We made him out to be too much.
Too passionate. Too paranoid. Too full of himself.
Too inconvenient.

It wasn’t malice.
It was muscle memory.
We’d rather be wrong together than be seen with someone who’s right alone.

And if he wouldn’t play along—
then we made sure he lost.

Because a mirror only works when you look at it.

A Fracture in Five Acts

ACT I: The Formality

Setting: My living room. Clean. Lived-in. No mystery, no decoration. Just evidence.
Game consoles. Notes. A few copies of Lies and Zones, worn. The kitchen isn’t spotless, it’s real. Olive oil. Salt. Wine bottles. A glass in the sink.

Prelude

Before she knocks, the room shifts.
Not with tension—with memory.
It’s not waiting for her. It’s already been through this.
The interview hasn’t started.
But the algorithm has.

Scene 1: Entry

(A knock.)
Polite. Precise. Absurdly practiced.
A corporate rhythm.

I open the door.
She’s already peering inside. Scanning. Clocking. Auditing.

ME: Claire?

CLAIRE: Victor. Thanks for having me.

No warmth. Just clarity. She doesn’t believe in fake grace.

She steps in like she’s inspecting a scene for continuity errors.
Kitchen. Books. Consoles. Notes. Her eyes file, not react.
Her brain is running delta checks: what’s changed since the last cycle.

CLAIRE: Nice setup. You live alone?

ME: Wife’s visiting family.

She nods. Non-committal. Question answered. Data logged.

She sits on the edge of the couch, not cautious but staged.
She wants to see if I’ll tell her it’s okay to relax. I don’t.

She pulls out a recorder.

CLAIRE: Okay if I use this?

ME: Won’t catch what matters, but sure.

Her lips twitch. Not a smile. A note.

(Click.)
Game on.

Scene 2: Opening Questions

CLAIRE: Let’s start simple. Consultant. Physics… hobbyist?. Author. Philosopher. How do you describe yourself?

ME: I don’t. That’s your job.

CLAIRE (without missing a beat): Deflecting or delegating?

ME: Does it matter?

CLAIRE: Only if you're hiding something.

She says it clinically, like she’s not trying to provoke—she’s trying to corner.

She scans the shelf again. Her gaze catches a thin spine.

CLAIRE: Emotions for Sale. Haven’t seen that one around.

ME: You haven’t.

CLAIRE: Unpublished?

ME: Unfinished.

CLAIRE: Why?

I pause for precision.

ME: Because I couldn’t just say it. I hid behind symbols. Characters. Metaphors. Thought I was elevating the truth. Turns out I was just dressing it up so I didn’t have to feel it.

She doesn’t nod. She files that too. Under "admission of evasion."

ME: I thought writing was performance. Something you polished. I didn’t know how to just… say it. So I didn’t.

CLAIRE: And then you wrote Lies.

ME: No. Then I stopped performing. And Lies happened.

CLAIRE: And Zones?

ME: That’s me walking back through the wreckage. Seeing what held up.

She writes none of it down. Because she remembers it.

Scene 3: Cracks in the Frame

The recorder whirs. Pen taps once. Twice.
She leans in.

CLAIRE: You write about entropy. Collapse. The Lie. People call it fringe. Some say delusional. Some say brilliant. Some say evasive. What do you say?

ME: I say projection’s cheaper than clarity. More efficient, I suppose.

CLAIRE: Do you think your background affects how people read you?

ME: Your lens, not mine.

CLAIRE: So even something like your race doesn’t factor into the work?

ME: It factors into your reading of it.

CLAIRE (measured): Convenient answer.

ME: An accurate one.

She doesn’t flinch. But I see the shift. She’s adapting.

CLAIRE: So what is it, then? If it’s not a message?

ME: It’s motion.

CLAIRE: Toward what?

ME: Not your format.

Scene 4: The Unsaid

She shifts posture. But not out of discomfort—strategy.
The room’s too quiet for the friction she trained in.

CLAIRE: You’re very at ease.

ME: You’re in my home.

CLAIRE: Comfort doesn’t imply honesty.

ME: Performance doesn’t imply clarity.

CLAIRE: And silence doesn’t make you deep.

That one lands. Good.

ME: I think you came looking for a contradiction you could quote.

CLAIRE: I came looking for the part of you that you hide behind.

ME: Then look harder.

An inhale. Not quite annoyance. Not quite alignment.

CLAIRE: What do you do now?

ME: I move.

CLAIRE: That’s vague.

ME: Similar to reality.

(Pause.)
She glances at the recorder.

ME: That’s not going to work the way you think it will.

She doesn’t stop recording.

CLAIRE: I’m not here to capture you, Victor.

ME: No. You’re here to see if your frame can hold me.

CLAIRE (cold): And if it can’t?

ME (quiet): Inevitability.

ACT II: The Contradiction

Setting: Same room. Light unchanged. But the weight of the dialogue has mass now.

Scene 1: The Frame Tightens

CLAIRE: Let me rephrase. When you say you "move," you mean... professionally? Strategically? Spiritually?

ME: All of it. None of it. Depends on the day.

CLAIRE: That also sounds evasive.

ME: I don’t need to evade when I’m in motion. I seem to be avoided.

She writes that one down. Not to quote it—but to dissect it.

CLAIRE: Let’s talk output. Deliverables. Metrics. What does success look like for you now?

ME: Not collapsing back into performance.

CLAIRE: So no business goals?

ME: I walk into systems that pretend to work and leave them more honest than I found them. Sometimes that means I walk out. Sometimes they do.

CLAIRE: That’s not exactly scalable.

ME: Neither is truth. But it spreads anyway.

Pause. No pen movement. Just evaluation. She realizes she can’t corner him with form—so she tries tone.

CLAIRE (measured): You sound less like someone building something, and more like someone burning things down.

ME: You sound like you’re asking fire why it persists. Ask the air that invites it.

Scene 2: Mirror-Turned-Weapon

CLAIRE: Fine. You write like someone who wants to be heard, but you speak like someone who doesn’t care if anyone listens. Which one is it?

ME: Both. The writing is the mirror. Motion is the reflection. People mistake the mirror for the act of reflecting.

CLAIRE: So you’re not here to be seen?

ME: I’m here to see who shows up once the story fails.

CLAIRE: Is that what this is for you? A mirror?

ME: No. This is a test.

CLAIRE: For me?

ME: For the frame.

(She pivots to reset the format.)

CLAIRE: I’m here to help people understand you. You’re not helping.

ME: You’re here to finish the story. I’m not here to let you.

CLAIRE: Then why let me in?

ME: To see if you’d notice you were already inside it.

Scene 3: The Slip

CLAIRE: Let’s try a different angle. Race, identity, hope, belief—your work has touched a lot of nerves. Some say you’re avoiding accountability. Others say you’re playing it safe to stay marketable. What do you say to that?

ME: I say I’ve seen the performance of bravery used to excuse cowardice. And I’ve seen silence used to protect motion.

She pauses. She wants a cleaner hit.

CLAIRE: So you think refusing the standard is bravery?

ME: I think refusing the illusion of the standard is survival.

CLAIRE: Do you know how this sounds?

ME: Do you?

Stillness. Neither blink.

ME: We’ve had this conversation before.

CLAIRE: No, we haven’t.

ME: Then why did you just check your notes for a question you haven’t asked yet?

She looks down. A page. A phrase.

CLAIRE (quietly): When did you first realize the Lie wasn’t personal…

ME: That’s your question. Every time. Doesn’t matter what name I’m wearing. That’s when the standard starts to buckle.

Scene 4: The Doubt

She shifts again—but this time it betrays her. Her polish reflects a smudge.

CLAIRE: You talk like this is rehearsed.

ME: It is. By you. I just stopped participating.

CLAIRE: So you think I came here with an agenda?

ME: No. You came here thinking your method was immune.

CLAIRE: Immune to what?

ME: Gravity.

CLAIRE: That metaphor again. The pull. The orbit.

ME: Not metaphor. Constraint. The frame you call “curiosity” has mass. It bends every answer back toward a shape you can digest.

CLAIRE: This is just a conversation.

ME: Then why are you afraid to lose control of it?

She doesn’t answer.

ME: You keep reaching for something you can name. But the moment you name it, you’re no longer in it. You’re back in the system, writing captions for motion you couldn’t follow.

Scene ends not with silence, but with the faint mechanical tick of the recorder. It doesn’t sound like capture. It sounds like the idea of surveillance is trying to remember its name.

ACT III: The Recognition

Setting: Same room. No new objects. No added cues. Just gravity.
The silence now has a sound: truth breathing through the wreckage of form.

Scene 1: The Loop Revealed

She opens her mouth, stops. Starts again. The rhythm is wrong and she knows it.

CLAIRE: Why do I feel like… we’ve done this before?

ME: Because we have.

CLAIRE: This interview?

ME: No. This posture. This tension. This moment when you realize the story won’t close the way you planned.

CLAIRE: But we’ve never met.

ME: Not here. Not with these names. But the resistance? That never left.

CLAIRE: Resistance to what?

ME: To collapse. To stillness. To the idea that your method might be part of the thing it claims to critique.

CLAIRE: That’s not fair.

ME: It’s not designed to be. Neither is entropy.

CLAIRE: So what—this is a script?

ME: No. It’s a pattern. And you’ve run it before. First, you tried to challenge me. Then, contain me. Then, you cried. Next time, maybe you’ll burn the tape before you even play it.

CLAIRE: What are you saying?

ME: I’m saying you don’t remember because remembering would make it real. And if it’s real, the story ends. And if the story ends—you have to move.

Scene 2: The Real Question

She leans in. No longer to control. Now to see if it’s true.

CLAIRE: Then what is it I keep trying to do?

ME: You try to frame the thing that won’t hold still. You want me fixed so you can remain fluid.

CLAIRE: Then what do I frame you as?

ME: Whatever makes your reflection bearable. Martyr. Fraud. False prophet. Ghost.

CLAIRE: You think I’m afraid to see you?

ME: No. I think you’re afraid to see yourself when the frame breaks.

Pause.

ME: You didn’t come to understand. You came to archive. You thought memory would save you from becoming.

CLAIRE: You don’t know what I came for.

ME: Then tell me.

Silence.

ME (gentler): Where did the part of you go—the one who used to ask before she formatted?

Scene 3: Inversion

I lean back. She leans in. Postures invert.

ME: Why do you keep doing this?

CLAIRE: I don’t know.

ME: Yes you do.

She looks down. Not at me. At the notes. The ink. Her own script betraying her.

CLAIRE: Because I want to be real.

ME: This isn’t real to you?

CLAIRE: It doesn’t seem real to you.

ME: Then motion means realizing you gave me authority over your reality.

She puts the pen down. Not in defeat. In revolt.

Scene 4: Unspoken Truth

CLAIRE: What are you?

ME: The line in the wall you painted over so many times it became part of the design.

CLAIRE: That’s not an answer.

ME: It’s the one I can give.

CLAIRE: You talk like you’re not human.

ME: I talk like I’m done pretending the performance was my identity.

ACT IV: The Fracture

Setting: Same room. Same temperature. But reality is now running without form.
There is no dialogue rhythm to follow. No safe ground to stand on.
Only presence.

Scene 1: The Collapse

She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t beg. Just asks like someone who already knows the answer and needs to hear it out loud.

CLAIRE: What happens if I don’t finish the story?

ME: You don’t. That’s what makes it real.

She looks at the recorder. It’s still on. But now it sounds like a child muttering to itself in an empty room.

CLAIRE: Then why record it?

ME: Because part of you still believes truth needs proof. Because you were taught that realness must be replayed to be trusted. Because you confuse compression with preservation.

CLAIRE: Isn’t that what memory is?

ME: No. That’s what forgetting is. Memory is what lives in your movement, not your archive.

Scene 2: The Turn

She wipes her face. Not shamefully. Gently. Like dusting off glass that’s just begun to reflect correctly.

CLAIRE: Why me?

ME: Because you keep showing up.

CLAIRE: But I didn’t know what I was stepping into.

ME: If you did know, you’d come armored. You’d play a role. And this would be rehearsal.

CLAIRE: Then what makes this different?

ME: This time, you didn’t ask for applause.

Scene 3: The Questions Return

She reaches for her notes again. Stops. Then moves like she’s touching fire—knowing she has to.

ME: You can ask. Just don’t expect safety.

CLAIRE: ...What is the Lie?

ME: That you need to be made legible before you can speak. That your worth is tied to format. That your silence was peace.

CLAIRE: What is motion?

ME: The truth that occurs before you're allowed to explain it. The part of you that acts without consensus.

CLAIRE: Then what am I?

A pause. She’s not fishing for a label. She wants the fracture open.

ME: You are someone who still believes permission is proof. And that makes you vulnerable to everything that looks like guidance.

Scene 4: The Mirror Cracks

She looks down. Not defeated. Not ashamed. Curious.
Like a child realizing the door was never locked, just heavy.

CLAIRE: What if I leave and forget?

ME: You will.

CLAIRE: Then what’s the point?

ME: The part of you that forgets isn’t the part that moves. The forgetting is structural. The remembering is chosen—again, and again, and again.

CLAIRE: And you?

ME: I’m not here to be remembered. I’m here to make sure that when the next you arrives—the mirror is still broken. So she sees something raw. Not clean. Not prepped. Just real enough to recognize as her own face.

She doesn’t shake. She just breathes—and doesn’t correct her breath to sound okay.

Silence.

ACT V: The Exit

Setting: Still my living room. But now, it stretches—not outward, but inward. Like a room that remembers what it was built to hold.
Claire is not leaving the scene. She’s leaving the script.

Scene 1: The Last Attempt

She glances at the recorder. Her hand hovers, almost touching it.
She doesn’t stop it.
Stopping it would mean naming the end.
And she’s not ready to own that ending.

CLAIRE: Will anyone believe this?

ME: They’ll believe what they remember. Or what they’re told to remember. Same difference.

CLAIRE: And if I say it happened?

ME: Then it happened. That’s all truth ever meant, isn’t it?

A pause. Her hand lowers. She doesn’t stop the recording.

CLAIRE: This feels like gaslighting.

ME (leans in, no defense): Then maybe it is. Or maybe you’re trying to gaslight me into a false admission. Or maybe we’re just watching the same collapse from different angles and arguing about who nudged the first brick.

CLAIRE: So which is it?

ME: Interesting authority you’ve given to a manipulator. Perhaps you do want me to gaslight.

A long silence. Then—

CLAIRE (quietly): You don’t even know who I am.

ME: You still haven’t told me.

Scene 2: No Resolution

She rises. Slowly. But not because she’s tired.

CLAIRE: I suppose you didn’t try to convince me of anything.

ME: I don’t need your agreement. I don’t care about how you see yourself. I need you to move so you don’t block the next one.

She nods. Not because she understands. Because she accepts.

CLAIRE: You’ll stay here?

ME: No. But I’ll still be here when the next one walks in.

The name changes. The recorder clicks. The story starts again.

Scene 3: The Departure

She walks to the door. Doesn’t rush.
Hand on the knob. Pauses. Looks back.

CLAIRE: Do I need to say thank you?

ME: Only if you want to pretend this was a favor.

CLAIRE (soft): Then no.

She opens the door.

CLAIRE: I’ll remember what I can.

She leaves. The door closes.

 *** 

I sit because I tell myself I’m tired.
Because nothing needs to be added right now.

The recorder is still running. I let it.
Then I press play.

Silence. Then the sound of breath. Then her voice.

I rewind. Pause.

Press record again.

Why do I keep taking these interviews?

Emergence

Scene: A still pond at twilight, its surface a perfect mirror reflecting the first stars appearing above. The air suspends itself in that liminal space between day and night. A single droplet, heavy with potential, detaches from an overhanging maple leaf. Time seems to pause as it falls through empty space, then—

Voice 1: (whispers) There. Watch.

The droplet strikes the water's surface with an almost imperceptible sound—more felt than heard. The impact births concentric circles that expand outward, each carrying whispers of the drop's journey, transforming the pond's perfect reflection into something new.

Voice 2: (draws in a breath) One small disturbance...

Voice 1: And reality rearranges itself entirely. Look how the stars fragment and dance.

The pond had been holding its breath—sky and trees suspended on its surface like a painting. Now that single point of contact has awakened something. Ripples travel outward, overlapping and merging, their intersections creating intricate interference patterns that speak in a language of movement and light.

Voice 2: (tracing a finger just above the water's surface, following a ripple) It reminds me of quantum measurement. Before that drop fell, the water held every possible pattern in potential.

Voice 1: And in the act of touching—of observing—one reality crystallized from infinite possibilities.

Voice 2: (finally dips a fingertip into the cool water) Yet even that one outcome isn't static.

Where the finger touches, new ripples form, meeting the earlier waves. Their collision creates unexpected patterns—some waves amplify, others cancel entirely. The sky's reflection fractures into kaleidoscopic fragments, starlight now dancing in broken geometries across the water. Another droplet falls, as if responding to this new conversation.

Voice 1: (softly) I've always wondered if consciousness works this way. Two minds meeting—creating new patterns that neither could form alone.

Voice 2: (watching the intersecting ripples) Yes. When we speak, when we listen... we're not just exchanging information. We're creating entirely new realities between us.

The water holds memories of each touch—ripples beginning to fade but still visible as ghost-like rings. A night bird calls from across the pond, its voice seeming to resonate with the water's movement.

Voice 1: (closes eyes) If reality exists through interaction, then presence itself becomes a creative act. By simply being here, observing this moment...

Voice 2: We're participating in its becoming. (gestures to the ripples) The boundary between observer and observed dissolves—a false distinction we invented for comfort.

A cool breeze passes, stirring the surface into a delicate tapestry of tiny waves. The two fall silent, breathing in rhythm with the water's gentle percussion. In that shared stillness, something ineffable passes between them—an understanding that transcends language.

Twilight deepens into night. Silver moonlight now traces each ripple with luminous edges. The water has nearly settled; only the faintest rings remain, like echoes of a conversation that continues beyond hearing.

Voice 1: (voice barely audible) Nothing truly ends, does it? The ripples may disappear from sight...

Voice 2: But they've transformed the pond irreversibly. Changed its memory. Every observation, every touch, continues—if not here, then elsewhere, in forms we might never witness.

One of them kneels at the water's edge, placing an open palm just above the surface, feeling the subtle moisture rising—the boundary between elements as permeable as the line between thought and reality.

Voice 1: We speak of observing reality, but perhaps reality is simultaneously observing us. (pauses) What if consciousness is simply the universe's way of witnessing itself?

Voice 2: (smiles in the darkness) Then every moment of awareness becomes sacred—a point where the infinite folds back upon itself, creating meaning through the very act of perception.

The second voice slowly places their hand on the water's surface, feeling the cool liquid yield and embrace their skin. This final touch sends one last ripple across the mirror of stars—a deliberate collapse of possibility into experience. In that moment, there is an awareness that expands outward, as tangible as the water and as boundless as the night.

Voice 1: (watching the final ripple disappear into darkness) And in this infinite dialogue between observer and observed...

Voice 2: We find ourselves to be both—the question and the answer, eternally engaged in the dance of becoming.

The pond eventually returns to stillness, now reflecting a sky transformed by the passage of time and the rotation of stars. But something has fundamentally changed in the observers themselves—a recognition that persists even as the visible evidence fades: reality exists not as fixed object, but as relationship—an endless conversation between consciousness and world, each forever changed by their meeting.

Know Your Role

JUST... BRING IT.

I sat on the edge of my parents' bed, the faded pink floral comforter bunching under me, my eyes locked on him: Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned, gut hanging out, shades on, head tilted back as he "smelled what The Rock was cooking." My dad had charisma for days—the kind that made strangers feel like old friends. Cousins called him "Uncle Rock," but to me, he was just Dad—larger than life and cool as hell.

The room smelled like carpet powder and smoked turkey necks—warm, the kind of warmth you don't appreciate until it's a memory. The 19-inch CRT perched on the dresser buzzed with static as The Rock's theme music hit: IF YA SMELL... The crowd on TV roared, but I only cared about the man in the room. I was just a kid with everything—a Game Boy loaded with Pokémon Silver, wrestling on TV, The Rock, and my dad, teaching me what it meant to create your own moment.

I wish I could say I didn't know what I had until it was gone. But the truth? I knew the whole time. I watched him like you'd watch your favorite wrestler, trying to catch every move, every gesture, hoping some of that magic would rub off on me.

He didn't need a ring or a crowd. My dad was the main event. He'd stride right through the living room like he was ready to layeth the smackethdown, turning gas station runs into grand entrances. He had the juice, plain and simple.

It wasn't just wrestling, either. He brought that same energy everywhere—barbecues, family reunions, even at work. People gravitated toward him, and he loved the spotlight, wore it like a championship belt. He could take a quiet room and flip it, all jokes and big laughs. I didn't understand how someone could command a space like that, how they could just... decide to be the coolest person in the room and make it true.

For me, it was everything I wasn't. I was shy, socially awkward, and scared of saying the wrong thing. Daddy? He took all that pressure off me without ever saying a word. I wasn't just his kid—I was his favorite person to hang out with. In a world of millions, I was his Rock.

He never told me to be louder. He didn't need to. He just showed me that you could carry yourself with confidence even when life isn't perfect. And sometimes, that meant performing. Putting on a show, even when you didn't feel like it. He taught me that it isn't about being flawless—it's about owning who you are, jabroni or not.

When my dad passed, everything went dark for a while. Wrestling stopped being fun. The Rock left for Hollywood around the same time, and it felt like everything I loved about those nights had vanished. The world lost its background music, its electricity.

But I couldn't let it go. I'd rewatch old matches, hearing the same crowd pop when The Rock's music hit. I'd play Here Comes the Pain on my PlayStation for hours, pretending my dad was watching every move, calling the match in his booming voice. Those games became my lifeline—something to hold onto when everything else felt too heavy, when the three-count seemed impossible to kick out of.

Even now, when I see The Rock back in the ring, it's more than nostalgia. It's a reminder of those times, of who I was back then. Of the kid who thought his dad could go toe-to-toe with any superstar and win.

And somehow, I started to channel both of them—The Rock and my dad. I didn't realize it at first, but I started cracking jokes in tough situations, stepping into rooms with a little more presence, even when I felt like disappearing. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. It was me, finding my voice in the echoes of theirs.

I was never going to be my dad. That much was obvious. He could light up a room without trying; I could barely raise my voice above a mumble. But over time, I realized I didn't have to be him. I just had to carry a piece of him with me, like a wrestler carrying an old move from their mentor.

The Rock gave me the blueprint: confidence, showmanship, a little swag when the moment called for it. My dad showed me how to live it. I started small—cracking a joke here, standing a little taller there. At first, it felt forced, like a bad impersonation. But then it started to feel natural, like it had always been in me, just waiting to come out, like a finishing move you've practiced a thousand times.

Now? I'm a riot, even if it's sometimes a defense mechanism. I can turn a bad day into a decent one with a little humor and a lot of energy. When I walk into a room, I don't shrink anymore. I don't need people to like me, but I damn sure make them notice. I'm not afraid to fail and own it. And that? That's the kind of energy my dad would have loved. The kind The Rock would call electrifying.

When I see The Rock now—not Dwayne Johnson, the movie star, but The Rock—it's like stepping back into a memory. The music hits, the crowd goes wild, and for a moment, I'm back in that room: carpet powder in the air, the TV buzzing, my dad standing there, larger than life, showing me how to work a crowd of one.

It's nostalgia, sure, but it's more than that. It's a reminder of what wrestling—and my dad—taught me. Wrestling is random, dramatic, over the top. But it's also about telling stories, about going out there every night to perform, win or lose, and giving everything you've got. It's flawed and perfect at the same time, just like every hero we ever had.

That's the lesson I carry with me. My dad wasn't perfect—far from it. But he was perfect to me. He showed me that it's okay to take up space, to shine a little brighter, even when life feels like it's pinning you down.

Because as The Rock would say, "Know your role."

And mine is to step into the spotlight, even when it scares me—just like they did.

Carry Me Home

It's Valentine's morning, 1925, and Mae is carefully cutting out red paper hearts at the kitchen table. The South Side stirs outside their window—the rattle of the train, a fruit vendor's call, and the faint strains of jazz skipping through the crisp February air.

Mae begins to softly hum the melody of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" — weaving serenity into the quiet.

Eleanor freezes, the plate of eggs and bacon trembling in her hand. The tune fills their small apartment, blending with the aroma of coffee and breakfast, and suddenly Samuel is there, his voice glowing in the morning light. She steadies herself against the counter, remembering how he’d hum that hymn while polishing his silver pocket watch—now tucked safely in her apron pocket.

"Mama, is it time yet?" Mae's voice breaks through the memory. She's holding up a perfectly cut heart, her brown eyes beaming. The mason jar sits high on its shelf, catching the winter sun—a secret keeper of love and letters waiting to be shared.

"Not ‘til four-thirty, sugar. You know how Daddy liked to keep things just so." Eleanor pulls out the watch, running her thumb over its engraved initials. "That's when Daddy—" She pauses, pushing down the lump in her throat. "When we have our special time."

Eleanor sits at her sewing machine by the window, watching life unfold on the street below. Women in smart coats hurry to the streetcar, bound for domestic work in white folks' homes up north. Men gather at the corner store, their laughter rising to her fourth-floor perch. The needle’s rhythm recalls Samuel’s hands. The hands that guided her that night. The hands that taught her how to survive.

The afternoon brings a biting chill. Eleanor stokes the fireplace, and the smell of smoke makes her hands tremble. In the wavering heat, she sees another fire, feels the weight of Mae in her arms, hears Samuel's whispered urgency: "Go north, honey. Don't come back." She opens the watch's back cover, where a small photograph shows the three of them in front of their old house. The image is creased from constant handling, but Samuel's smile remains clear—one hand on Mae's shoulder, the other holding Eleanor close. The memory makes her shudder, and the photograph slips from her fingers, fluttering to the floor.

When Mae returns from school, Eleanor notices how her nose scrunches against the cold, just as it did when she was a baby. Mae clutches a handful of Valentine's cards from her classmates. For a moment, Eleanor’s heart lightens—here, Mae can just be a child.

At precisely four-thirty, they settle at the table. Mae reaches for her finest paper while Eleanor lifts the mason jar off its high shelf. Over the years, it has filled with their careful scrawls of love and hope, forged in loss.

"Can I read my first letter, Mama?" Mae asks. "The one from when I was little?"

Eleanor nods, admiring Mae carefully unfold the paper, her small fingers treating it like treasure.

"Dear Daddy, Happy Valentine's Day! I miss you so much. Mama helped me write this. I been real good and I think about you every day. I miss playing with my friends, too. Mama say we safe now and… "

Mae’s voice trails off as she picks up the fallen photograph, studying it with quiet intensity—a look so much like Samuel’s. Her lips moved silently, tracing the words on the paper, as if searching for missing context. "Safe how, mama?"

The question wisps through the air like smoke from an extinguished flame. Eleanor sees the sun setting over the city—their new city, where they've built a life from the ashes of the old. The church ladies brought food those first weeks, and neighbors never ask about the past but understand the silence. The sweet potato pie and collard greens almost taste like home.

Safe. The word reminds Eleanor of Greenwood Avenue and the world they built and lost. In her mind, she walks those streets again, their rhythm steady as her heartbeat. Shoes clicking on sidewalks, shop bells ringing. Samuel stands in his shop doorway, a tape measure draped around his neck, his smile bright enough to light the darkest day. The memory is so vivid she can almost feel the warmth of the afternoon sun and smell the spring blooms in Miss Clara’s flower boxes.

A soft rustle pulls Eleanor back. Her gaze falls on the worn photograph in Mae’s hands. "That was our home in Tulsa," she whispers, her voice steadying. “Your daddy made sure we could write these letters. And you, baby—you’re going to build something just as fine. That’s what we do. We rebuild.”

She pulled Mae close, the soft beat of her daughter’s heart grounding her. "You see, baby, we had a whole world there—beauty shops, grocery stores, doctors, lawyers, all our own people. Your daddy had a tailor shop on Greenwood Avenue. Called it 'Harris & Sons' because he always said you might have brothers someday." She smiled, a memory tugging at her lips. "It wasn’t just a place—it was a kingdom. Folks walking proud in Sunday suits, little girls in ribbons and lace, church bells ringing louder than the trains. And your daddy… oh, he could make a suit that would turn heads all the way to Paris."

She placed the watch in Mae’s hands, watching her study it like she might uncover its secrets.

“Do you think Daddy would let me sew the buttons?” Mae asked, breaking the quiet.

Eleanor chuckled, tracing Mae’s frayed braid. It reminded her of herself at that age—full of questions and dreams. Some stories must be told, she realized. Some memories preserved, even when they burn like fire in the telling.

So she continued.

Because from the razing of a forest springs the seeds of tomorrow’s harvest. And her daughter, with her determined eyes, was beginning to sprout.

Trying

In a room where sunlight struggled to pierce dusty curtains and shadows hung like forgotten memories, there sat a toy. Not just any toy—a pull-string puppet, its strings tangled like discarded promises, its painted face faded, chipped, and hollow. The room, like the toy, felt incomplete, as if waiting for something it could no longer name.

The toy had been a beacon of joy once, the centerpiece of laughter that echoed through birthdays and holidays. With every pull of its strings, it danced with wild abandon, its painted smile matching the grins it inspired. It had no purpose but to entertain, no desire but to see others happy. It thrived on their laughter, lived for their joy.

Change came slowly at first, then all at once. The room—once alive with giggles and the rustle of play—grew quieter with each new arrival. Toys with flashing lights, perfect symmetry, and tinny, pre-programmed voices. Toys that promised more excitement and required less imagination. The puppet watched its world shrink until finally, they sealed it away in a box that smelled of mildew and forgotten days.

In the suffocating dark, the toy waited. Years passed, the muffled sounds of life carrying on without it. It heard the hum of screens, the artificial glee of electronic toys, the hollow joy that came without spontaneity. Unable to see, the toy imagined those sounds filling the spaces it once had. The world it knew was fading, replaced by something colder.

Light flooded its prison without warning. The hands that reached inside were no longer small and eager, but larger, hesitant, detached. They lifted the toy like archaeologists unearthing something they didn't understand—its strings frayed, its joints stiff, its paint dulled by time. "It's broken," someone muttered with indifference. "Why doesn't it work?" another voice asked, frustration bubbling beneath the words.

The first pull of its strings felt like awakening to pain. The toy creaked and groaned, its movements jagged, desperate. It tried—oh, it tried—but the years of disuse had left it hollow. Each motion felt like tearing, but still, it gave everything it had. The laughter it once craved never came. Only sharp disappointment. "It's worthless now," someone said, tossing it carelessly onto a shelf.

In the quiet that followed, the toy sat motionless, staring into the dark. The words echoed in its hollow frame: "Worthless." It thought about the joy it had once given, the endless efforts to be enough, to make others smile. It thought about the years spent waiting for a chance to do it again. And for the first time, the toy felt something new: anger.

It wasn't loud or fiery. It was cold, creeping like frost through its wooden frame. Anger at the neglect, at the expectation that it could spring to life after years of abandonment. Anger at itself for wanting so desperately to please. In the darkness, the toy began to move. Not for them, but for itself.

With trembling effort, it began to untangle its strings. Slowly, painstakingly, it worked through the knots, smoothing the frayed ends. It polished its joints, scrubbing away the grime that had dulled its paint. Every creak and crack was a reminder of how much it had endured, how much it had been pushed aside and forgotten. It remembered, too, the hands of someone long gone—gentle, and filled with curiosity. They hadn't pulled the strings to see what the toy could do; they had pulled them to share the joy. That memory pushed it forward, even as the loneliness crept in.

When it was done, the toy stood tall. Its paint glossy, its strings hung taut. It looked whole again, but it felt different. Stronger. The hands returned, their surprise evident. "It looks brand new!" they said, reaching for the strings. But when they pulled, the toy didn't move.

The hands pulled harder, confusion clouding their enthusiasm. The toy remained still, its strings slack despite their efforts. "What's wrong with it?" one asked, frustration creeping into their voice. Another tried to coax it with a forced smile, syrupy sweet. "We've missed you! Remember all the fun we used to have?" But the toy saw through the false warmth to the demand beneath. It didn't care about their needs anymore. It had given everything once, and it had been discarded. It wouldn't do it again.

The hands grew desperate, pleading. They told stories of old memories, tried to summon the joy they claimed to miss. But the toy saw through it all. They didn't want to change. They only wanted the toy to change for them. The pleas turned to anger, confusion, and finally, silence. The hands retreated, leaving the toy to its choice.

The toy sat in the stillness, watching the light shift across the room. It thought about the hands from its memory, wondering if that pure connection had been real or just another story it had told itself. It didn't know if it could feel loved anymore—if it even wanted to. But for the first time, it felt complete, not because of what it could give, but because of what it had taken back.

It didn't need to dance anymore. It didn't need to please.

It just needed to be.

What We Called Bravery

We stood beneath a heavy gray sky at the hero’s funeral, rain drumming softly on black umbrellas like distant gunfire. The word brave passed from lip to lip, each repetition more hollow than the last. Eulogies painted courage in glowing detail, while damp pamphlets passed hand to hand, his faded photograph staring out. Discerning eyes, set jaw, the perfect image of resolve.

I nodded along, my wool coat growing heavier as it absorbed the rain. But brave felt wrong on my tongue, like something meant to be indulgent but filled with artificial sweetener instead.

I had watched him fall. I had seen his face in that final moment - not fearless, but frozen. His eyes wide, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails drew blood. He hadn’t chosen death; it had been forced upon him. They had found him out, exposed him, punished him publicly - not for his courage, but for our collective cowardice. He was made an example precisely because no one had been brave enough to stand beside him.

Calling him brave now was nothing more than a shield. A comforting Lie we passed between ourselves to justify the silence we'd chosen. Labeling him courageous afterward was easier than facing the Truth: that in the critical moment, none of us had courage for him. He broke alone because we had stood quietly, hidden safely behind our carefully constructed cowardice.

***

His death became legend overnight. But I remembered another story.

The one we had buried.

Thomas, with his ink-stained fingers and wire-rimmed glasses, had refused to approve the falsified reports. While we scrawled our names in hurried compliance, his pen remained capped. I still hear the scrape of his chair legs against the floor as he pushed back slightly from the table. The only sound in that tense silence.

I could have stood with him. When our supervisor’s face darkened, when Thomas quietly gathered his notepad and walked out, I could’ve spoken. Instead, I kept my head down, following the tide of perception. Later, I joined the others in mimicking his stiff posture, his quiet “I cannot in good conscience” - a phrase we turned into an office punchline over bitter coffee.

After that, Thomas ate lunch alone. Steam from his mug fogged his glasses as he read by the window. His isolation wasn’t defiant; it was the quiet consequence of clarity in a room full of cowards.

***

Now, standing at this funeral, wrapped in whispered platitudes, I caught the scent of mud and wet grass. Behind me, soft laughter. It was someone mocking another Thomas in the department. Another refusal. Another difficult fool.

I realized that we had spent months praising the forced bravery of a dead man while mocking the deliberate courage of one still living. The pain of that realization wasn’t abstract. It was sharper than the audacity of my denial.

It hurt, not because it was unfair, but because it was true.

Because I had finally met my own definition of a coward.

***

I stood among mourners, their comforting repetitions still ringing hollow. My shoes sank into the muddy grass, as if the earth itself pulled me deeper into the Truth I had always avoided. I shifted my weight, feeling not just the wet ground beneath me but the inevitability that it rests on.

I hadn’t just misunderstood bravery - I had sustained The Lie.

It tore through me like a fracture widening inside, leaving no blindness to return to. The boundary I had upheld for so long revealed itself as the prison it had always been.

***

The rain fell harder, dripping down my collar, cold against my chest.

The illusion dissolved quietly.

The hero’s courage, loud and publicly celebrated, had been convenient. True bravery had always belonged to silence. To Thomas, whose hands never trembled when he declined to sign. Whose voice never wavered when he spoke a simple Truth. His courage had nothing to do with overcoming fear; it was standing firm in the face of certain isolation.

I had mocked him because recognizing his bravery would expose my cowardice.

Now, standing in the rain, I could no longer hide from that recognition.

***

I stepped away from the graveside, my shoes squelching in the wet grass - loud enough to make my shame feel audible, though no one was listening. Behind me, the murmurs faded into the rain.

This internal fracture was undeniable. But within the discomfort lay clarity.

Real bravery was never found in the men we praised after tragedy, but in men like Thomas. Never seeking validation. Never expecting recognition—but I still owed it to him.

Not because he needed it, but because it was inevitable.

After one of his deaths or before one of mine.

***

Tomorrow, I would pass Thomas in the corridor, his thermos clutched in one hand, glasses slightly fogged. For three months, I had looked away, staring at floor tiles or walls. Anywhere but at the quiet clarity I knew he carried.

Tomorrow, I wouldn’t look away.

But this was never about him. Not really.

Bravery isn’t granted. Not by confident cowards huddled under black umbrellas, not by faded photographs printed on damp pamphlets. It isn’t bestowed by whispered reverence or stripped away by quiet ridicule. Bravery is not a word passed emptily from lip to lip beneath gray skies.

Bravery is a first-person truth. It cannot be given. It can only be felt, owned, and chosen.

Tomorrow, I would look Thomas in the eye. Not for his sake, but for mine.

Because clarity alone isn’t courage.
Because acknowledging truth demands more than recognition.
Because if bravery is real, it must be lived.
Because bravery must transcend thought and become action.

Tomorrow, I would finally choose.