I move through the room like a ghost draped in skin, smiling in all the right places, laughing on cue— a hollow sound that bounces off walls and disappears. I know their names, their stories, the way their voices rise when they care. But somehow, I remain untouched, like glass set at the edge of the table— there, but not really part of the feast. They talk in circles I can’t step into, warm like campfires I’m too cold to reach. I nod, I listen, but their words pass through me like wind through thin curtains. I am with them, but not with them— a moon circling a planet that never looks up. Sometimes, I wonder if I faded when I wasn’t looking. If somewhere along the way, I left myself behind in a place no one visits anymore. They say my name and I answer, but it sounds borrowed, like a coat I’m wearing because I forgot how to be bare. This crowd, familiar as a childhood street, feels foreign now. Like walking through a dream where faces smile, but eyes don’t see you. And maybe they never did. Or maybe I’ve become too quiet, too far, a postcard never sent, a story no one noticed missing.