I don’t stay the same person for long.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s subtle, like a radio slightly changing frequency
every time the room shifts.
Some days I am certain.
Some days I am barely there at all.
I look for myself in patterns:
how I talk, how I react, what I want, what I swear I don’t want anymore.
But even those don’t hold still.
Even those rewrite themselves without asking.
It feels like identity isn’t missing,
just unstable.
Like it exists, but can’t decide its shape.
And then there is my favourite person.
Not a choice that feels like a choice.
More like gravity noticing me.
When they are close, I feel assembled.
Like the scattered pieces line up for a while
and I can pretend I know who I am.
I speak differently.
Think more clearly.
Feel less like smoke.
But it isn’t steady, it’s conditional.
A message can shift the air.
A delay can change the shape of my thoughts.
Silence can turn everything inward again,
and I start trying to become someone
who won’t be left.
I don’t always notice I’m changing.
I just notice I’m not me anymore
and I don’t know when I stopped being them.
So I rebuild.
Over and over.
From reactions, reflections, fragments of what worked last time.
And I keep wondering
if there is a “me” underneath all of it
or if I am just the space between attachments,
trying to hold a shape long enough to be called real.
