Sometimes I think people misunderstand sadness.

They think it arrives dramatically.

Like storms.

Like screaming.

Like breaking things.

But mostly, sadness is quieter than that.

Mostly, it looks like waking up before your alarm because your thoughts got there first.

Mostly, it looks like staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to negotiate with yourself.

Five more minutes.

Ten more.

Please.

The city outside my window is already awake.

Cars move.

People laugh.

Lights turn on.

Somewhere, someone is excited to start their day.

I wonder what that feels like.

My name is Atlas.

Like the titan.

Like carrying the world.

Funny.

Because sometimes carrying myself already feels heavy enough.

I sit up eventually.

I always do.

That should count for something.

The sky outside is pink.

Soft.

Beautiful.

The kind of sky that makes you feel guilty for being sad underneath it.

I open my curtains anyway.

The city greets me with noise.

And I greet it back with silence.

Today will probably look like yesterday.

Wake up.

Pretend.

Smile when necessary.

Come home tired.

Pray.

Repeat.

But maybe there will be small things too.

A pretty cloud.

Warm coffee.

The moon.

Something.

There has to be something.

Because if there isn't—

Well.

I get up before I finish that thought.

Again.

-

The hardest part of my day isn't school.

Or people.

Or pretending.

It's this part.

The beginning.

—

My alarm goes off.

7:02 AM.

I turn it off.

Then stare at the ceiling.

The ceiling stares back.

We do this every morning.

—

My room is quiet.

Too quiet.

I can hear my thoughts waking up.

I don't like that.

—

Eventually, I sit up.

Not because I want to.

Because staying still somehow feels worse.

—

I stand in front of my mirror.

There she is.

Atlas.

Again.

My hair is messy.

My eyes look tired.

I wonder if people can tell.

I wonder if I want them to.

—

Brush teeth.

Wash face.

Brush hair.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

There is something strange about routines.

How you can perform them perfectly without remembering any of it.

Like your body knows how to survive even when your mind doesn't want to participate.

—

I open my closet.

Most days I wear the same things.

Oversized sweaters.

Long skirts.

Hoodies.

Things that don't ask much from me.

Things I can disappear inside.

—

I put on lip balm.

Then wipe most of it off.

Too much feels embarrassing.

Too little feels wrong.

Existing is strange.

There are so many rules no one explains.

—

The sky outside my window is pink.

For a second—

just one—

everything looks soft.

Gentle.

Like maybe today could be different.

Then my phone buzzes.

The feeling leaves.

—

I grab my bag.

Check for headphones.

Notebook.

Pen.

Phone charger.

Emergency supplies.

—

Before leaving, I look at my room again.

The unmade bed.

The books.

The blankets.

The quiet.

Part of me wants to stay.

Part of me always wants to stay.

—

"Okay."

I whisper.

Not because I'm ready.

Because eventually you run out of reasons not to.

So I leave.

Again.

–

Crowds.

Cars.

A city that never sleeps.

Distant alarms.

Homeless.

Life.

Always moving.

Always going.

But the bus is late.

Always.

Among the people, I don’t exist.

I like it this way.

No words needed.

Silence.

No.

The background noise to their day.

Like the graffiti on the building.

Or the broken street sign.

All decorations.

To their ordinary life.

Nothing special to remember.

Or notice.

–

I wonder if the person who sits beside me on the bus remembers me like I remember them.

An old man with a few groceries he's trying to keep cold in a metal dolly.

Does he hear my music from my headphones?

Fly Me To The Moon by Frank Sinatra.

The lofi version.

Not the original.

Could he tell?

My stop is near.

I always worry about pulling the signal too late or too early for the bus driver.

And -

I pull it too late I think.

No one says anything.

But I feel their judgement on my back.

—

St. Katherine’s Preparatory School for Girls.

Founded in 1892.

No boys allowed.

Though St. Andrew’s is across the street.

They always mingle in the courtyard in front of the school.

I don’t join.

Never.

Instead I struggle with the lock on my locker every morning.

I don’t feel like talking to anyone

But-

“Atlas!”

Maya and Jules.

My best friends join me at my locker every morning.

Jules always gets it open for me.

“Thanks.”

I say.

Again.

“Did you do the homework for Sister Lorene’s class?”

Maya asks.

She’s already taking hers out for me to copy.

They know.

They see right through me.

We do this every morning.

I don’t know how to thank them.

It eats a pit in my chest.

They don’t mention it.

—

I copy the homework before 1st period.

“Did you hear they’re finally letting us have a school dance?”

“Will I get to dance with Rachel from Mrs. Hamish’s class?”

“They’re going to partner with St. Andrew’s, I think.”

“You think she’ll agree?”

My eraser leaves smudges on my paper.

1st period starts with Ms. Johnson.

An older woman.

Never married.

Forgettable.

Like me.

—

 People say loneliness means being alone.

I don't think that's true.

I think loneliness is sitting with people you love and realizing they are all facing each other.

And somehow—

not you.

—

We're sitting together at lunch.

Three trays.

Three drinks.

Three people.

Which should feel less lonely than one.

Right?

Maya is laughing.

Jules is telling a story.

Something about someone they both know.

Something that happened yesterday.

Something funny.

I smile when they laugh.

Even though I don't understand the joke.

—

"Atlas, are you okay?"

I look up.

Too slowly.

"Yeah."

I always say yeah.

People usually stop asking after that.

—

They continue talking.

I continue listening.

Which are different things.

Very different things.

—

I wonder if people notice how often I stay quiet.

Or if eventually silence just becomes part of who you are.

Like hair color.

Or eye color.

Or height.

Atlas.

Quiet.

Atlas.

The girl who listens.

—

They start making plans.

Saturday.

Coffee.

Maybe shopping after.

"You're coming too, right Atlas?"

The question hangs there.

Heavy.

Because now there are two wrong answers.

"No."

Or.

"Yes."

"I'll see."

I say.

Because sometimes uncertainty sounds softer.

—

Walking home later, I count something.

Not cars.

Not streetlights.

Not buildings.

I count how many times I almost said something.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-three thoughts.

Twenty-three conversations.

Twenty-three versions of me that stayed inside my head.

—

Maybe friendship isn't supposed to feel like this.

Or maybe it does.

Maybe everyone secretly feels like extra furniture in someone else's life.

Maybe everyone learns how to ignore it better.

—

The city is loud tonight.

I like that.

It makes it harder to hear myself thinking.

For a little while.