If you knew, you’d be bored with me in a second.
I type it without thinking, but it’s true. It’s easy to hide behind a screen, to be someone else, or at least a version of myself that feels braver than the girl in real life.
Six:
Not possible. I’m literally at a party, and all I want to do is leave so I can spend all night talking to you.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when something hits the door with a heavy thud, followed by muffled giggles. Frowning, I get out of bed and open the door.
One of the girls from down the hall is sprawled out in front of me, her head clearly taking the brunt of the fall against the door. She blinks up at me, eyes a little dazed from the impact.
“Oh my God,” one of her friends chuckles from behind her, rushing over to help. “Sorry, Mary.”
I blink. “It’s Maisie,” I say, quieter than I meant to.
Her face scrunches in confusion. “Huh?”
“My name,” I add, a little louder. “It’s Maisie.”
The girl laughs again. “Oh shit, sorry. Did we wake you?”
“No, it’s okay,” I say with a small smile. “I was still awake.”
The girl who fell manages to sit up, rubbing the back of her head. “I’m fine,” she slurs, her words slow and fuzzy, clearly drunk out of her mind.
One of the others snickers. “Sorry again,” she says, flashing me a nervous, sheepish smile as they shuffle away.
They’re already moving on, giggling as they disappear down the hall. I watch them go, a hollow ache settling in my chest.
I don’t know why it stings. It’s not like I expected them to talk to me, or suddenly make me part of their world. I don’t even know them.
But for a moment, I imagined what it’d be like to have a group of friends like that. Not to spend every night alone, tucked away in my room, talking to someone I’ve never met.
Maybe I only like the quiet because I’m used to being alone.
It’s always been this way. In elementary school, I played by myself during recess. In middle school, I learned that blending in was safer than trying to fit in. I stopped raising my hand in class, stopped speaking unless someone spoke to me first.
By the time high school rolled around, I’d perfected the art of staying invisible.
But it didn’t matter. They still found reasons to make fun of me. My body, my voice, the way I took up space that wasn’t meant for someone like me.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of it. No point in dwelling on the past.
I close the door and sink back into bed, my phone buzzing in my hand a few seconds later.
Six:
Did I lose you? Sorry. I should let you go to sleep.
My thumb lingers over the screen before I finally type back.
Me:
No. I’m still here.
I don’t tell him what just happened. I don’t tell him how, for a second, I wished I could be more like them—loud, carefree, a part of something. Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on the one connection I have, even if it’s just through a screen.
Because maybe this is all I get.
