If fiction was so.

Mother, she tells me I’ve been sleeping too late every night. She says that only weird people sleep at those hours. I tell her that she does not understand; weird people are the ones who actually go to bed early, these days.

I stare at the ceiling for a minute, or two, before I feel a frown coming on. What’s wrong? She asks. I tell her that I am tired. I hold her hand and tell her about the people in my life and how they disappoint me.

My eyes tear up a little as I confide in her about the people at school and how they have been treating me. It must be me, I say, being that every ‘community’ I try to insert myself into ends up forming some sort of.. distaste, for the likes of me.

She bites her lip, and her eyes, they look sad now. I feel bad, somewhat. She squeezes my hand gently and looks at me. She does not say anything but the hanging silence does not bring discomfort. I know this woman, she is my mother. No words needed to be exchanged. I feel better just knowing that one person in the world does not perceive me through scrutinizing, judgmental eyes.

Still holding her hand, I close my eyes and breathe. It’s been a while since I breathed this easy. No perspiring profusely, no second guessing every move, every word, no having to plan my words and actions meticulously. No more, at least, not for now. I can be..me.



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