I came home from therapy still carrying that strange hollow ache in my chest, the kind that makes every room feel dimmer. He came home from his interview smelling like outside air and ambition. I changed immediately, oversized shirt with holes stretched thin from years of washing, no bra because I wanted softness, plaid pajama pants carrying that faint stale-sleep smell that settles into fabric when comfort becomes routine. Hair brushed, technically, but untouched otherwise. Existing in the least performative version of myself.

I sat curled into the couch scrolling through stick-and-poke stencils, deciding what I wanted to carve into my skin next. A mess on the table in front of me.

Then voices outside.

One of those couples.

The firefighter and nurse duo from his work. Older than us. Cleaner somehow. More complete. The kind of people who stand in station parking lots with stainless steel tumblers and easy confidence. The future-version archetype everyone secretly wants to become. Stable healthcare careers. Shared schedules. Joint incomes. A life already assembled correctly.

People we’re supposed to become eventually.

And before I could even process it, he stepped outside and started talking to them.

And then offered them to come in and check out the place.

Like I wasn’t sitting inside looking half-feral, tits barely concealed under a threadbare shirt, surrounded by clutter and stale air and the emotional hangover of therapy. Like strangers don’t feel invasive to me. Like being perceived isn’t exhausting enough already.

He invited them in.

Actually invited them in.

Something in me immediately curdled. My pulse spiked so fast it felt chemical. Because why would you do that? Why would you spring coworkers on me with no warning? People you admire. People you work beside. Why would you assume I want them to see me like this?

Because these aren’t random people to me.

These are the polished adult versions of us. The couple already living the life we’re clawing toward. And suddenly I’m being forced into comparison while barefoot in stained pajama pants, sitting in a messy apartment smelling faintly like old blankets and anxiety.

I have tried so hard not to meet them.

And if I ever did, I wanted it controlled. Curated. I wanted clean floors and a candle burning and enough time to build the acceptable version of myself first. I wanted eyeliner on. A bra. Some illusion that I have myself together.

But instead I was just… real.

Too real.

And when I got upset, he acted irritated. Muttering under his breath while walking back outside to tell them “it’s not a good time,” like I was the unreasonable one. Like my discomfort was inconvenient. Like I had ruined something instead of being cornered by it.

I know he doesn’t understand it.

To him it was harmless. Coworkers. Small talk. A casual invitation.

But to me it felt like being dragged onstage under fluorescent lighting without warning.