I'm fucking sick and tired of apologizing.

It's the same drill every time. I fuck up. (It's my specialty). I think about what I did. I feel sorry for it. I say so. I point out what I did wrong and try to convince the other person that they did everything right. 

That's what I've ought to be doing now, but instead I'm sat alone at a table, staring at my phone. I'd have my mouth hanging open in shock, except there are a bunch of people around me, and they're all strangers. I only really stare openmouthed if it's in front of an audience. If I'm actually shocked, I don't do shit.

Anyway, what I'm staring at on my phone isn't much. Just my text messages. It's better than being on Instagram, because that's a shit hole. I mean it. It's a bunch of people trying to prove that they aren't living awful lives, that they're living the fucking dream. I never post there.

The text is from my friend, and it says that she's not going to be at lunch. Fucking peachy. I'm fine with it, of course. I figured this day would come eventually. In fact, I fucking welcome it. I can make it through lunch without talking to anyone. It's the same idea as my fucking bedroom. I'll just pull out Wattpad or something. 

Maybe I'll message my internet friend. We normally talk on Wattpad but switched to Instagram recently, and I'm ashamed to say that yes, I did stalk her, and yes, she's hot as hell. In a boyish way. She has those squinty-eyes that I've always wanted. My eyes are slanted downward, so I always look sad when I'm sitting alone. I'm always telling people that I'm not sad. It's annoying. Instagram is the fakest app, I tell you.

Anyway, I'm getting kinda anxious, because my other friends aren't showing up. Well, my other friend. My best friend of sorts--it's messy, honestly--anyway, they have these two people they're real close with, who I hardly know. And those are their friends. I was sort of hoping that they'd sit by me, and I could sit near them, and we could maybe do something. I told my friend I'd make a Kahoot with them. Just something fun like that. They've been real sad lately. I hate it because it sort of hits me, too. And then I start making up these lies, like I'm a big empath or something. Bullshit. I can't even get sad when someone dies. If I'm getting depression from someone else, it's just me being selfish. Probably acting.

So I send them an Instagram message. That's where we talk. I shoot them a text, something like hey, are you at anime club? 

They reply quickly, a little fuck, forgot about anime club / I'm in J.

J is the building I'm in. Sat alone. I look around, real subtle, so I don't get caught sitting alone like this. I'm fine with being alone. It's just when there's other people that it gets messy. Everyone's sitting with someone.

It's not too late to go, I reply. And I'm in J too. / Come sit by meeeee. How fucking pathetic. We're good like that, though. I can be pathetic and they're cool with it.

I'm in the corner with [friend names], they reply. Listening to Jared. / Wanting to cry.

I don't see that text immediately. That's because one of my friends is approaching. We're not too close. I can probably tell you her name. It's not like some stalker will find me. We always say shit about how someone will notice everything you post online. I think it's the opposite. Whenever I post, no one notices. I could post a fucking suicide note on here and my family would find it a few years later, if ever. 

So anyway, her name's Cece. We used to be real close. Once she broke down in front of me, crying about some boy she likes who left to go to New Jersey. Then she hung out with the straight Christians. I'm too gay to be Christian. I went to a church last weekend and honestly I'm still surprised that I didn't burst into flames, right then and there.

I'm a bit surprised that she's sitting in front of me. We exchange greetings, fake as hell, and then I say that I need to microwave my food. She comes with me. 

Instagram first. At the microwave now. / I can't believe ur ghosting me. 

I can't believe I said that. It's a dick move and I know it. What can I say. I'm insecure as hell. People think I have my shit together, that I'm some cool and collected college-bound nerd. Truth is, I spend half my time fearing what everyone else is thinking, and the other half doing shit to make me look better. Nobody knows about my Wattpad.

The microwave is fucking silent. Cece and I make small talk. On the way back, she needs to use the bathroom. My spaghetti smells good but I don't eat it yet. Instead, I check the corners of the cafeteria.

What the hell? They aren't in any of them. Their friends aren't that hard to miss: that blue hair is a fucking beacon. I want blonde hair so I don't blend in with the crowd as much as I do. Brown is a fucking ugly color. I say it's my favorite, but there are different types. Brown of Normani's skin? Hell yeah. Brown of Camila's hair? Yes please. Any fucking brown or white color that's on me? Ugly as hell. 

I'm ghosting you..? they ask. Fuck. I knew that'd hurt them and I did it anyway. Why do I even do this stuff? I need to do something. My hand is on my forehead. I hit it a few days ago with the corner of my phone. Corners are fucking deadly. Now there's a big lump on my head. I wonder if anyone can see it. It feels like a fucking unicorn horn with how swollen it is to me. No one's said anything about it, though.

You're not sitting by me. Nothing quite like burying myself to get out of this hole I've dug. And we were going to make a kahoot. 

I turn around and Cece is at the table. One last corner check and they're not there. They didn't even fucking sit in the same vicinity as me. It has to have been on purpose. We planned to make a Kahoot. They knew and they left me. 

It's not like I deserved any better. I even feel a little bad about Cece. There she is, sitting with me. I wonder if the straight Christians were at Bible Club or something. If they are, then Cece should go.

I return to Cece and bring up her not-entirely-a-boyfriend. She talks a bit about him and it's actually really interesting. They stayed up real late into the night, hanging out and talking. I wish I could do that. Just talk about nothing with somebody that means something. Camila Cabello called those real friends. I can't entirely have real friends. You can't have real friendships if you're fake.

oh...

AND I HAVE CHECKED ALL THE CORNERS

i'm sorry... God, I hate that word. They don't even have a reason to apologize. That's all the two of us do, is have misunderstandings. I know that all this shit is my fault. They're depressed--that's obvious to me--and it's my job to help them. I have a therapist. I don't think their 'parents would let them get one. 

I don't say it's okay. I'm not that good of a person. I don't have time, anyway. I can't let Cece get onto me. I can't get caught. Maybe I'm the one who's keeping them a secret, not the other way around. I guess that would explain why I'm not sitting next to them. They're just giving what they get.

Instead, I send a video of the four corners with text: WHAT CORNER? They send a video in reply: it's the corner of the fucking building, not the room. They sat as far away from me as possible. 

Ohhhhhhhh / Whatever, dude.

sorry...

Whatever.

I'm petty as hell and I know it. But I guess there's something kinda eating me. I have a bit of a secret that I've been dying to tell my therapist. Once she gets back to me about our next meeting, I can actually get it out and be disproven. But for now, it's just a simple fucking truth. It's not a secret so much as I've just never said it. If I don't say it, it's not real.

What I do say to Cece is that my internet friend is hot. I'm mad because my internet friend keeps talking to me about her future girlfriend that she has no chance with, and of course she has a chance, looking like that. I'm the one with no chance. Part of it is my appearance. Most of it is my soul. I like to lie and say I sold it to my neighbor. In reality, it's still there. Just really ugly.

Cece tells me that I'm being a hypocrite. Why am I pining over my hot internet friend and then pointing out that New Jersey is far away? That's so not the point. I don't like them like that. I don't say that.

I wish Cece would talk about how New Jersey boy makes her happy. You always hear stuff about people making you happy. Your best friends are like, your fucking source of happiness or whatever. Your lovers make you happy. 

I can't make people happy. I'm a bit of a clown, honestly. I should join the fucking circus. You see, it's like I was created to make people happy. It shouldn't be that hard: just pay special attention to what they want and do it for them. Then they'll love you or whatever. But that doesn't work for me. I'm not sure what my friends want, and everything I do only makes it worse. I guess that's why only Cece is sitting near me. Once I told her that I missed sitting by her at lunch. She's probably just trying to make me happy, instead of making herself happy.

She should go make herself happy. Go sit with her real friends. 

Okay...are you mad at me?

What sort of a question is that? Of course I'm not--am I? No. Well, yeah. But only in a projecting way. Like, when you're mad at your teacher for giving you such a hard test, when really it's because you didn't study and you know it. So I'm mad, but I'm more mad at me. You feel me?

No. That's dumb. I shouldn't be mad at anyone except myself. Projecting is wrong no matter what. The only good thing to do when you're angry is forgive the person you're angry at. Otherwise you lose friends, or you get sick.

No. I want to tell them that. I want to explain everything. How I just wanted to make them happy but can't. Not those exact words, of course, because that sounds gay. It is gay. I swore I'd get better, that I'd stop thinking of them like that, like I want to be their source of joy like they are for me. 

I failed, of course. I never keep my promises. I'm fake like that.

I leave lunch early because I'm going to apologize. I change my route to walk by where they were walking. There's the blue hair of their friends. Madison, I start to say--not Maddie, they hate that--but they're not there. Suddenly there's something real heavy in my chest and my throat is closed up. I look at my feet and hurry off. I shouldn't have walked there.

It's raining outside. I take off my glasses and can't see shit. I can't see anyway; I think my left eye's prescription changed, because it's like I suddenly can't read anything. Anyway, it's real dreary and gray out, and that's about all I can say. Except, there's a blur of red on the horizon, and it's Madison. It's their hoodie. I don't remember what it says but they wear it about as often as they wear their NF hoodie. I can't see how it looks on them but I remember thinking it looks good.

Anyway, they're at the top of a flight of stairs, near the D building doors, and I need to hurry. 

I speed up.

I can't see the fucking stairs. Two at a time. Don't slip.

Look up. They're gone. No red. Just gray and gray and gray. The sky's gray, the pavement's gray, the people are gray, even the grass looks gray. God, I hate the rain. I used to love it, did you know that? I used to think the rain felt so good washing over me, like I was forgetting everything and just being washed in rain.

Now it's heavy. I need to hurry. 

Stairs to D building. Our classroom is on the second floor. I can hear them on the second of three flights. Two at a time. Three at a time.

I'm on the second flight. They're on the third. Hurry!

I'm at the bottom of the third. They're at the top of the fourth. It's like when I walk with them to their first hour and leave them at the bottom of the stairs. The walk back is always really gray and I always find myself rapping "The Search" quietly to myself. I walk outside no matter how fucking cold it is outside, because I can't stand seeing two of my acquaintances making out en route. 

I catch the door as it closes. Go to talk to them. And they've turned to the side.

No.

They're talking to their friends. Their real friends. I hate that phrase. I can't talk to them. I find my sister and pretend that everything's okay. It's so fucking dumb to be sad about this. I shouldn't be sad about it. I don't want anyone to catch me being sad. That's the worst thing, getting caught. I'd rather put on a fake smile than have someone see me cry. 

Lunch is great, as far as my sister knows. It was great. Cece is a great friend. I'm really thankful that she came and found me in my solitude. 

I notice that the classroom is empty and go to enter it and Madison is going in as well. I pause to let them in first. They look hurt. I messed up. I mouth sorry. They step a bit closer. "What?" I'm sorry. Then they're in the classroom. I set my stuff down and spin around to tell them everything that happened and fucking apologize and--

"Good afternoon, Hayley." It's the long-term substitute teacher. I freeze. I think my mouth is open but I'm not sure. Madison is looking at me and back to the sub. They're daring me, I think. I just have to say what I have to say, in front of them, in front of everyone.

There's something sticky in my throat. I'm a coward. 

It's not like I can let the sub hear me apologize. If she hears my pain, I'm going to be indebted in some way. I'll have to promise not to be this way again. Or go down to the counselor and explain how I fucked up. Emotions have consequences. If I'm feeling bad, I better hide it and not let anyone except my therapist see it. Otherwise I have to pay for it.

I sit down. I'm a coward. My acne is really obvious, I think. I'm feeling it, and my fingers land on the bump in my forehead and press. Why am I crying? I shouldn't cry. Press harder. That's not working.

I need to say something. I'm a coward.

They're not in the room. They left.

My sister enters the room. I have this mechanical pencil in my hand. I stole it off the ground once. It's one of the tiny thin ones, the type that always has one of those plastic nubs on the end that's real sharp if you scratch it against your wrist. That sharp end is digging into my thigh. It doesn't feel good. It feels like hell, if I'm going to tell you the truth. There's nothing pretty about self-harm. I went three months without doing it and then started against last Thursday. I've done three. I tore my lip open with my fingers. Real metal, I know. Two fingers on both sides of my mouth, tugging like the fakest smile you've ever seen, and suddenly I was tasting metal. It still burns when I put chapstick on it. 

Now I'm spelling DIE on my leg as I tell my sister I'm fine. Class has started. Madison isn't back. Did I scare them away? I think I did. That's all I ever do is make things worse. What a clown I was, thinking I could make anyone happy. I should be a standup comedian and talk about all my hopes. People would laugh their asses off. 

My sister catches me writing on my leg. I remember that my therapist emailed me about our next session. I have to check it now.

No. 

[My therapist] had a family emergency and is hoping to be back in the middle of February....it blurs. I'm not crying, you are. This lump in my throat is anger or sickness or something. 

The thoughts aren't okay. I can't keep thinking them until I see my therapist because I won't see my therapist. I'm sick and I don't have any medication at all. I need SSRIs. Not actually, because those drugs are shit. I'm not sure what they do. Make it easier for me to get the bad thoughts stuck in my head and harder for me to hold onto my self esteem? Point is, I'm weak. I should be able to fight off the thoughts. I could do it a week ago. Now I can't, because I'm so fucking weak. My mind is my strongest muscle but even it can't fight off the sickness. I'm like a zombie being taken over by the pathogen and the cure was destroyed in a fire. 

Suddenly I need to talk to Madison, but class has started. So I busy myself with touching my forehead. I wonder if I broke it. If the bump is little bits of brain seeping out into my face. That's probably why my brain doesn't work anymore. Maybe I'm dying. Maybe I just want to be dying.

No, I am dying. It's the slowest death. Where you slowly let go of everything you can't bear to lose, and everything that holds you together falls apart. It's like you're standing on a platform with a drill in your hand and you're taking out the screws. First the platform gets wobbly. Then it gets tiny and you have to hold onto something but there's nothing to hold, only the ground and it's so far down. 

Thing is, you don't die when you hit the ground. You just sit there, and the world around you keeps going, while you're just a pile of disfigured body parts, a soul trapped inside a corpse, dying to do something but you just can't move.

We're reading Catcher in the Rye and I hate it. Sometimes I read too closely and I see myself in Holden. It scares the hell out of me, if we're being honest. Holden ended up in a mental asylum. Not to mention that he's, as my honorary older sister describes it, "a whiny little bitch boy." I don't want to be a whiny little bitch boy. I wouldn't mind being a boy, though. Sometimes I feel like my body doesn't fit me right. I'm not transgender. It's just a few things. Like I was made to wake up different every day. 

The sub goes around and checks the annotations. I'll tell you a secret: I didn't do the annotations I was supposed to. I didn't even try to bullshit new ones; just left the pages blank and started on the next chapter. I already read it, though. It just hurts to annotate, because then I start feeling sick and can't go on.

Anyway, she goes around and approves some people and leaves others. She comes to me and I get ready to turn to chapter eight. I prepare what I have to say. I didn't do the annotations. I don't really have an excuse. Go ahead and mark me down. I'll do better next time, I promise.

Instead, she says "I know you did them" and skips over me.

Well, now I'm openmouthed. I stare at her like she's the clown. Kind of follow her around with my gaze a bit, eyes wide. No one notices, I don't think. She definitely doesn't. Eventually, I get bored of trying to get her attention with my stupid expression, and go back to annotating.

Here's the thing. I kind of have a reputation for being smart. I guess that's what happens when everything you do and everything you think is about trying to maintain your reputation. Truth is, I kind of hate it. I can't stop it, though. I'm the gifted kid, and the worst kind, too. Most gifted kids crash at some point. I'm still at the front of the pack. Only difference is, I still got the crippling fear of failure. Now everyone thinks I'm perfect and I don't do anything wrong. Then they get to know me, realize that I have two brain cells rattling around in here (if I had one, it wouldn't be a complete circuit) and complete dumbass energy. Then they figure out that one of those brain cells is dedicated to queerness, and they run. 

If they don't run, I push them away. I'm good at that. 

I do whatever I can to get rid of my stupid reputation. Sometimes I answer questions wrong on purpose. A lot of times, I just sit real silent in class while everyone else gets answers wrong. But then I get a good idea and share it, and boom, I'm different again. 

I'm kind of afraid of what would happen if I proved myself as stupid. I think I'd lose my identity. I don't have much else. I'm smart and I would lay down my life for Camila Cabello. That's about it. I like to believe that we're all mosaics of the things we love, but if so, then how could anyone complete a mosaic with me in it? There's nothing to me. You can't be made of nothing.

Maybe that's why no one loves me for long. 

So I go back to annotating, and then I get kind of bored. So I read ahead. By the time I'm done, I haven't even finished my work, and fifteen minutes have passed. At least, I think so. Everything's blurry. I swear, I can't even see. Everything I do see is distorted. It's like there's a filter over my senses, and it scrambles all the information I get. It's like I'm dyslexic, but with thoughts. 

I finish annotating, eventually, and finish up the vocab words. There are ten minutes left to class. God damn block schedules. I look up what apps are on my chromebook and there's a sketch tool. I didn't know that existed! I open it up and the canvas is real blank. Maybe I'll draw Catra. No, I always fuck that up. NF-style shopping cart with balloons? I can't do that. NF isn't even mine. 

I could draw a new wallpaper. I draw a line and then I have an idea. I draw a smiley face. Real dopey, just two thick dots and a thin little curve underneath them. It doesn't look anywhere close to real. All wobbly, like it's going to collapse at any moment. I want to write graphic design is my passion next to it, but I can't. It doesn't let me. So I sit there for a minute, with my stupid fake smile on my screen, and just kind of stare at it. I don't like it at all but I can't tear my eyes away.

It's not like I can see anything else, either. I need new glasses.

The walk away from class is hell. Madison is right in front of me the whole time. I don't even know how to apologize anymore. Sorry doesn't cover it. Sorry isn't an apology. It's the start of one. Like saying "hi" to someone, or "I love you" to your significant other. You don't ever just say I love you, or else it's fake. You go on about all the wonderful things they do and prove that you love them. Same thing with sorry. You have to prove it.

Either way, I can't. They hold the door for me but don't acknowledge I exist. I feel like we're back to where we started. I think that it doesn't matter what I do, they'll never be bold enough to say hi to me outside of class. And if they do, they won't prove it.

I don't think they can, though. I'm not someone you can prove that to. I hold onto friends like they're a puddle of water in my palm. At least scaffolding is secure at first. My hands are weak and can't hold anything. They're made for pushing, not grasping.

I guess this story is a way to say sorry. Just say what happened. Show everyone how sick I am. Because I am sorry, for everything. I know that's overused. What I mean is that I do a lot of bad things, and they all kind of pile up, and then they become stories like this. I never have just an apology. There's always a story.

Actually, I'm using the story to justify myself. I was blind but I have my glasses on now, and this is what truly happened: I downplayed the importance of one friend because I was ignoring another, and then got too caught up in Catcher in the Rye. Then I acted like an asshole to everyone who matters to me, because I'm mentally dyslexic and tend to distort what people mean. 

I read about gaslighting once, but I think I'm the one who's gaslighting.

Anyway, I'm dragging this out too long. I'm sorry. I have no excuses.