Pretending at sunrise

CHAPTER TWO

Chapter Two – Ghosts in the Hallway

Seeing this person almost every day was its own quiet thrill—a flicker of excitement on otherwise grey mornings. They’d pass in the corridor or drift through the cafeteria, sunlight pooling on their skin, words floating around them like music no one else could hear. But something felt off.

It wasn’t them. It was me.

I knew—deep down, in that stubborn, scarred part of myself—that there was no way this person would ever look at me the way I saw them. So I buried the hope even as it pressed quietly against my ribs. I’m good at detachment. Good at turning off feelings before they dig their roots in too deep. Detaching from thoughts, from people, from the world—it’s almost a talent now.

So I did my thing. I let myself fade back into the routine: wake up, go to class, count the cracks in the ceiling, keep myself small. I whispered to myself, “It was never them.” Maybe it was true.

I think, really, I loved the idea of us—the dream of what might be. If it ever became real, I’m not sure I’d even know what to do with it. Sometimes I think I want to be loved, but most days, the thought terrifies me more than being alone. There’s a patchwork of old hurts stitched inside me: fear of abandonment, fear of being loved, fear of everything except, maybe, death.

Every smile felt like a mask; every crush a secret I was better off keeping. I wondered, does everyone else feel this haunted, or am I the only one floating through class as a ghost? Maybe that’s my superpower—vanishing before anyone gets too close, before hope turns into something that could shatter me.

And so I watched from a distance, carrying my feelings like fragile glass. Detached. Comfortable, almost, in the ache of not-belonging.