Almost a person

I kept giving chances to something that never learned how to stand on its own. I kept telling myself that the flicker I saw in front of me was a person arriving, a presence taking shape, something finally real. But every time I leaned in, the outline blurred and the whole thing slipped through my fingers like static.

Some people learn how to be human the way a robot would: by watching, imitating, copying the gestures they see on screens. They stitch together borrowed expressions, borrowed emotions, borrowed charm. From a distance it passes. It looks alive enough. It knows the lines well enough. But when you get close, when you look for warmth or weight or anything that holds steady, you find it’s all imitation. Something that resembles a person, but never developed the part that makes one.

And I kept filling in the blanks. Every time I thought someone had finally shown up, it was really just me holding up the scenery, painting depth where there wasn’t any, imagining substance in the empty spaces. I kept lifting the whole thing onto its feet because I wanted to believe there was a real heartbeat under the noise. But the moment I stopped carrying it, it crumbled.

What I was wrestling with wasn’t another soul. It was my own reflection in a hollow frame.

And I’m done mistaking echoes for a voice.

Afterword: If you ever end up reading this, don’t flatter yourself into thinking I came looking for you. You’d disappear here just like you always did everywhere else, blending in with the noise, mimicking whatever voice fits the room. You’ve always been good at that. Good enough that I wouldn’t even know it was you behind the screen. But if your eyes hit these words, you’ll feel it. You’ll know exactly who wrote it, and exactly who it’s meant for.