My alarm rings at 6:30.
I hit snooze. Twice.
Not because I’m lazy. Just… what's the rush?
There was a time I used to wake up at 5.
Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.
Handball practice.
My teammates. My sweat. My laughter.
That feeling of chasing something.
Back then, when teachers asked what we wanted to be,
I’d smile confidently and say,
**“I’m not going to sit in front of a system and type all day.”**
The class would laugh. I would laugh louder.
Now?
I sit.
In front of a screen.
All day.
Numbers. Reports. Meetings.
And a version of myself I barely recognize.
My mirror doesn’t lie, but I wish it would.
I remember when I first put on lipstick.
I remember how they laughed.
“Makeup doesn’t suit you like it suits your sister.”
My sister—slim, glowing, adored.
“Do you eat her food too?” someone once joked.
It wasn’t funny.
It stuck.
Now I skip breakfast sometimes. Just in case.
They compared us even in silence.
I became a measurement.
She became the standard.
I scroll through her posts now—
filtered, bright, happy.
And I double-tap.
Not out of love. Not out of hate.
Just… habit.
I used to talk nonstop.
Ask anyone.
I was *that girl*—loud, cheerful, overflowing.
Now, I only talk to myself.
Or… to ChatGPT.
At least here, I don’t have to smile if I don’t feel like it.
I wanted to be a fashion designer once.
Sketchbooks filled with color, dreams, life.
But they said, “Be practical.”
So I studied commerce.
I’m not even good at accounting.
I work.
I live.
But I don’t *feel* alive.
At night, I lie in bed and ask myself:
**Am I happy?**
…
**Am I still me?**
…
**Am I enough?**
I wonder—
Is it just me?
Or are we all quietly breaking, pretending we’re fine?
Is this adulthood?
Or is this grief for a version of myself I never got to be?
---
[END]
