Always Almost - Ash F.

Every morning, before I even open my eyes, the same thought hits me: Did I forget something? It’s never clear what. Maybe a homework assignment. Maybe a text I was supposed to reply to. Maybe a look I gave someone that’s stuck in their head, and now they think I’m some kind of weirdo. Or maybe I’m just imagining all of it. That’s what makes it worse.

I sit up and tie my shoelaces. Twice. Once tight, then again tighter. It doesn’t fix anything, but it feels like I’m trying to control the uncontrollable. Like maybe if my shoes don’t come undone, then maybe my day won’t fall apart.

I get to school early, way too early. I like it when the halls are empty, when there aren’t too many voices bouncing around in my head. When people aren’t staring or talking or expecting me to say something. I pretend the quiet is a safe place.

Class is like a balancing act. I nod and smile at the right moments, but most of the time I’m counting the exits, planning my escape route if everything suddenly feels too much. My leg bounces under the desk like it wants to run away from my own skin. I tap my pen on my thigh, trying to convince myself I’m fine. But the words don’t reach my mouth.

Lunch is worse. Sitting alone means people whisper. Sitting with others means I have to talk. Talking means I might say the wrong thing, sound dumb, or say too little and look invisible. So I usually choose silence and hope no one notices.

Someone tells me, “You’re so quiet.” I laugh, like it’s a joke, but really, silence is the only way I can breathe. It’s the only way I feel safe.

The worst part? Not knowing why I feel this way. Why my heart pounds in the grocery store or when someone looks me in the eye. Why joy feels like a visitor who’s about to leave. Why everything feels like it might break, even when it’s all fine.

I walk home with music blasting in my ears. It’s not because I love music that much—it’s because silence is too loud. Full of all the thoughts I’m trying to outrun. I step on the cracks in the sidewalk anyway. Nothing breaks. Not yet.

I check my phone three times, just to make sure no one hates me. They don’t. Probably. Maybe.

At night, I lie in bed, scrolling and scrolling, pretending to be peaceful. When I finally close my eyes, I whisper a small, tired hope: Maybe tomorrow won’t feel like this.

But it probably will.

Still, I set my alarm.

Just in case.