It is February of senior year when I finally fall victim to an intense and profound dissatisfaction. I suddenly become overwhelmed by how much of a "not quite" I am: not quite as funny as him, not quite as smart as her. I am not quite as pretty as she is and not quite as patient as he. And somehow amidst this realization that I'm not quite as good, for lack of a better word, as anybody else in my entire grade, I realize that I am also not quite myself.

It is because of this reason that I am not quite who I think I am and not quite who everybody makes me out to be that I hold my flooded head high when I walk into school the next day, determined for a drastic turnaround with my newfound discovery.

I am thinking again, hard and long about how I am nothing, how I have lied over and over to create a persona to attract friends, how I am a terrible, horrible, not quite human being. Buried in my thoughts, and only half paying attention to everything going around me, I rehearse my words and everything that needs to be said. There is so much that needs to be released from my chest, so many words that must leave to clear my muddled mind, and so much change that needs to start, that I am glad that fate decides to intervene in the rigorous cycle my thoughts play in.

I bump into the exact person that I need to see.

"Hey," says he, a smile growing on his lips. "You didn't answer my text last night, did you..."

I interrupt, "Yeah. You're right. I didn't answer."

He frowns. Arms that were being raised for a hug drop to his sides in confusion.

I clear my throat. "I think... yeah, I think this, us... We're not going to work." Somehow, his arms seem to drop further to his sides, even though that isn't technically possible. I try to feel sorry for him, but all I can feel is my remorse lessening. "It's not you. It's me. It's always been me."  

"What are you talking about? We're fine." He tries to argue, protests quick to leave his mouth, but they still cannot compete with the aggressively persistent thoughts in my mind.

I shake my head, cutting him off. "Maybe you're fine, but I'm not. I told you, this is all on me." I point my chin upward, afraid that otherwise I will lose steam. "I'm not who you think I am, and we need a break. Maybe a long one."

"Who are you then?" he asks, the denial still evident in his eyes and the way he takes a step forward.

I step back, "I'm not sure yet. That's part of the point of breaking up. I need some alone time to seriously sort out everything that's going on." I pause, thinking about what to say next. "But I will tell you this. Who am I? I'm someone who's breaking up with you." I consider apologizing, but I figure that won't lessen the blow.

Plus, I don't feel too extraordinarily sorry. It's as if I have closed one door, but opened so many others. Suddenly, things seem as though they are much more manageable. And maybe I can pick up the broken shards of my identity and piece them all together in a new mosaic, more beautiful and perfect than the last.

We stand, people bumping into us as we stay locked into place. I watch the words sink in. I see the tremble that begins at his lower lip, and I feel disgusting, but not more than usual.

I decide to say it: "I'm sorry." I'm not. "I feel bad, too." Just not about this. I feel bad about everything else that everyone around me has failed to notice- the downward spiral, the forced smiles, and this painfully nagging exhaustion that seems to follow me around in an all too intoxicating cloud. I feel bad that I'm not as smart as everyone thinks I am: I hate how physics takes me four hours when everyone else says it was "easy;" I hate how my essays fall apart in the second paragraph; I hate that lately my studying has been landing me nothing better than a B. I feel bad that I'm not as chill as everyone seems to think I am: I hate that I'm not, because I am sad and angry and unsatisfied; I hate how I listen to angsty music; I hate how I write sad poetry, in the sense that it is both depressing in tone and depressingly void of talent. I feel bad that I can't please everyone; I hate how I constantly have to choose between my best friend and my (now ex)-boyfriend; I hate that they make me; I hate that I care. I feel bad that I'm expected to love both of them, when I haven't the heart to love myself.

"I need this," I tell him, turning to head to my first period class and bury myself into a pile of schoolwork that I'll maybe understand.

His hand is on my wrist, gentle- a last fading touch as I shake my hand from his grasp. "No. We can talk about this, Ja-"

I stop him before he can say the rest of my name. "Don't call me that anymore. I'm not her."

"What am I supposed to call you then?" I am sure he's confused.

I have taken this into consideration. I cannot be an entirely new person if I'm bearing the same name. I need this fresh start, this blank palette before I start restocking the color. The name goes.

"Salinger. But you're not supposed to call me at all."

Then, I leave. I leave him abruptly, his mouth gaping in the crowded school hallway. I leave him in search of a happiness that I hope I will find. I leave him, in hopes of tossing the not-quites and the phoniness of of it all. 

I leave him for me.

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not my best work, but therapeutic nonetheless. thnx for reading.