There’s a version of me that floats beside the real one. She checks things off. Smiles politely. Nods when expected. She is very efficient at vanishing. Some days I feel like a tab someone forgot to close. Still open, still running, but nobody’s clicked back in a while. If I crashed, maybe someone would notice. Maybe not. I keep showing up in quiet ways. Soft yeses. Overthought replies. “Let me know if there’s anything else.” The invisible art of knowing what people want and giving it to them before they even ask. I’m very good at being dependable. I’m very bad at being seen. There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t touch your body, just your hope. The slow ache of being useful but never wanted. I wake up tired. I go to bed guilty. I’ve done everything and still feel like nothing. Lately, I’ve started wondering if this is all some long, slow audition. For love. For recognition. For the right to say, “I don’t want to do this anymore,” without losing everything I’ve quietly bled to hold onto. I am not dramatic. I am not chaotic. I’m the type to spiral silently, then sign off with, “Thanks so much :)” I used to scream. Now I just underline things. Highlight them. Hope someone notices. Hope someone cares enough to read between the lines. It’s strange, how many versions of yourself you can bury just to keep things easy for other people. I’ve never asked to be rescued. But God, sometimes I just want someone to look at me and say, “You don’t have to keep trying this hard.” I’m tired of being downloaded only when needed. Of being opened but not read. Of existing at the bottom of something that wasn’t even written for me. I am not the attachment. Not the afterthought. Not the checkbox you forgot to tick. I am still here. And I want to be chosen on purpose.