I sat in the farthest corner of the school courtyard, my knees drawn to my chest, my hands clasped around a book I wasn't even reading. The world moved around me, loud and chaotic. Students laughed, yelled, and sprinted across the grass, their voices colliding in a symphony that made my head buzz as if metal on metal I adjusted my position on the concrete bench, tilting my body further into the shade of the tree that arched protectively above me. Here, I could watch unnoticed, blending into the background like a shadow.
My eyes darted from group to group, catching snippets of conversations that floated on the breeze. A girl's voice rang out sharply, telling a story that had her friends in fits of laughter. A pair of boys debated the results of last night's game, their arms flailing in exaggerated gestures. Even from this distance, I could see the spark in their eyes, the ease with which they belonged. I envied that spark, yet not for the first time.
I dropped my gaze to the ground. A trail of ants marched purposefully past my shoe, each one carrying a burden that seemed impossibly large for its tiny frame. I watched them for a while, intrigued at their single-minded determination. Were they aware of how small they were in the grand scheme of things? Did they care?
I turned to the journal in my lap, flipping open to the last filled page. My handwriting sprawled unevenly across the lines, the words tumbling out in frantic bursts the night before. Thoughts about the universe, the absurdity of time, the strange beauty of loneliness
ideas I wouldn't dare share with anyone. Not because they weren't worth sharing, but because I was certain no one would understand.
I skimmed a passage:
Does everyone feel like this? As though the world is moving too fast, and I'm the only one standing still? Or am I the one who's moving too fast, noticing too much, thinking too much, while everyone else is perfectly at ease?
The bell rang, jolting me from my thoughts. I closed the journal with a soft thud and slipped it into my bag. I stood slowly, giving the other students time to rush ahead before I joined the stream. My feet moved on autopilot, weaving through the hallways, my head down to avoid eye contact.
In class, I chose a seat by the window, as I always did. The teacher's voice was a distant hum, the words barely registering. My focus was on the world outside: the leaves quivering in the wind, the way sunlight painted shifting patterns on the pavement, the flight of a bird that seemed entirely free.
"Elara."
My name snapped me back to the present. I blinked, realizing the entire class was looking at me. The teacher, a wiry man with kind eyes, had paused mid-sentence. "Could you repeat what I just said?" he asked, not unkindly.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I mumbled an apology, my voice barely audible, and stared at my desk. The teacher nodded and moved on, but the moment lingered like a shadow. My classmates exchanged glances, some smirking, others indifferent. My fingers tightened around my pen. I hated this. Hated being noticed for all the wrong reasons.
When the bell finally rang, I was the first to leave, slipping out before anyone could stop me. I found refuge in the library, my sanctuary. The scent of old paper and the hush of the space enveloped me like a comforting embrace. I wandered the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books until I found one that called to me.
Settling into a corner, I opened the book and let the words pull me into another world. Here, I didn't have to think about the eyes that watched me, the voices that whispered about my oddness. Here, I could be invisible, just as I liked.
But as I turned the pages, a small voice in the back of my mind wondered: What if? What if I dared to speak? To share even a fraction of the thoughts that buzzed inside my head? Would it be as terrifying as I imagined? Or would someone finally understand
The thought lingered, I shook my head and buried myself deeper in the story, pushing the thought away. For now, my world was enough. At least, that's what I told myself
It's been six months since everything shifted. It doesn't sound like a long time, but it feels like I've been living in a completely different world.
I can't tell if I've changed or if everyone else has, but I don't fit the way I used to. I feel like a puzzle piece from the wrong set as if the same shape, different picture.
When I'm with them my so-called friends I notice things I didn't before. The way they laugh at things that don't feel funny to me anymore. The way they talk about people like they're characters in a story instead of… people. And I just sit there, pretending it doesn't bother me. Pretending I belong.
But I don't.
I catch myself saying things I don't mean, trying to match their tone, their energy. It feels like wearing someone else's skin, tight and wrong and itchy. I hate it. But when I'm quiet, they notice. They ask, What's wrong with you? Why are you so serious all the time? Like being thoughtful is some kind of crime.
It's easier to just stay quiet.
I've started spending more time alone. It feels safer that way. I go to the park with my notebook or sit in my room with music low enough that it doesn't drown out my thoughts. I don't know if it's loneliness or relief. Maybe both.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm overthinking everything, if I'm the one making it weird. But then I remember how their words sting, how their jokes make me shrink. That's not my imagination.
I keep telling myself it's okay to feel different. It's okay not to fit in everywhere. But the truth is, I miss the way things used to be, even if I can't go back.
Am I the one who's changed too much? Or are they the ones who haven't changed at all?
am i ever given the blessing of being understood
but i have made no effort to express my feelings. Im afraid of being outcasted than i already am
People search for solace in others, but I wonder if it's ever truly found. Maybe it's fleeting, like a brief moment of peace that slips away before you can even grasp it. We tell ourselves that comfort is possible, that connection can fill the emptiness, but what if we're only fooling ourselves? What if the loneliness never goes away, and solace is just a word we use to distract ourselves from the ache?
The misfits
those whose minds move in ways others can't follow seem to drift through life, always searching for a place to belong. Maybe they find it, in rare moments, in spaces where they aren't forced to hide who they are. But most of the time, they wander, never fully fitting in, always on the edge, never fully seen. And it's not because they don't want to be seen it's because the world doesn't know how to look at them without judgment.
Belonging feels like a lie most days. It's a dream we chase, but it always feels just out of reach. There are moments when someone's glance says, "I see you," but how long can you hold onto that? How long before it fades, leaving you empty again? It's hard not to wonder if we're all just pretending to fit in, bending ourselves into shapes we weren't meant to take, hoping someone will say, "You're okay, just as you are." But how many of us ever hear that? How many of us keep changing, just to feel like we belong?
There's safety in the corners, in the spaces where misfits hide away from the world. It's easier to stay there, hidden, than to face the chance of rejection. But hiding doesn't heal. It might keep the pain at bay for a while, but it always comes back. Maybe the corners become prisons, after all, trapping you in a place where no one can reach you, not even yourself.
What does it mean to fit in, anyway? Is it worth losing yourself for?
i wonder if fitting in is just a survival tactic, a way to navigate a world that doesn't always have room for those who stand out. But there's a cost, isn't there? It's not just the bits of ourselves we have to give up...it's the truth we bury every time we pretend to be something we're not. And maybe, just maybe, refusing to fit in is the only honest thing we can do, even if it means being alone.
Maybe, somewhere deep down, there's a part of us that hopes someone will see us for who we really are—the unspoken truths we keep hidden, the things we're afraid to say. But how often does that happen? How often do we speak, and the words never quite come out right, like they're too tangled to be understood? It's not easy to speak when the world feels like it's always listening for the wrong things. So we stay silent, even when it hurts to do so.
Solace in others? Maybe it exists, but it's never permanent. It's like a flicker in the dark, something you can hold onto for a moment, but it's gone before you know it. Maybe solace isn't something we find at all. Maybe it's something we have to create, piece by fragile piece, as we move through this world—finding moments, fleeting though they are, where we don't have to hide, where we can just be.
The misfits the ones who refuse to bend, who don't fit into the shapes the world gives them will always feel like they're standing outside. Perhaps they're waiting for something else, something they can't see yet.
And maybe we're all misfits, in our own way. Maybe we're all hiding parts of ourselves we're afraid to show. But what if, just for a moment, we stopped hiding? What if we let the world see the parts of us we keep locked away? Would it change anything, or would it make us more alone? Maybe we'll never know, because we're too scared to try and so am I