The thing about school pictures? They never show the real you. Just this weird, artificial version—like a costume you got forced into. Looking at mine, I felt like I was staring at a stranger. Mr. Rivera was saying my mother called about the "family package," and I was just sitting there staring at this picture like it was some kind of museum exhibit or something. It makes me want to puke. Who is this fucking kid?
"Uh, I dunno. Maybe just the basic package," I told him, still looking at that picture of this kid that was supposed to be me. Blue button-up shirt my mother picked out special. Hair all short and neat because my father said it was "getting shaggy." What a laugh. He's always saying things like that. It really drives me crazy.
Mr. Rivera just nodded and marked something on his clipboard before moving on. Thank God. Some of these teachers, they really depress the hell out of me.
Then Jamie, who sits next to me and isn't as fake as most people, leans over. "Dude, you look constipated in that photo."
That made me sort of laugh. "Thanks a lot."
"Just saying. My mom's gonna order like a million copies of mine and force me to sign them like I'm famous or something."
See, that's the difference between Jamie and me. He looks in the mirror and sees himself. I look in the mirror and see a stranger. Fucking depressing as shit, if I'm being brutally honest.
The bell rang, and boy, you never saw such a stampede. Everyone running like madmen to get out of there. I was in no rush. I just kept putting my history book in my bag as slow as possible. I get this feeling sometimes like my skin belongs to somebody else, and I'm just borrowing it or something. It's a terrible feeling.
"Earth to Mason. You coming or what?" Jamie was standing by the door with his backpack over one shoulder, looking impatient as hell.
"Yeah, sorry. Just..." I didn't even know how to finish the sentence.
"You're being weird again," he said, but not in a mean way. That's the thing about Jamie. He notices things but doesn't make a big production out of it.
"Big weekend plans?" I asked him while we walked down the hall. I'm always changing the subject. It's a habit I have.
"Dad's taking me fishing tomorrow. Kill me now." He pretended to hang himself, which was sort of funny in a morbid way. "What about you?"
"Nothing much." That was true. I spend most weekends in my room, trying to figure out who the hell I'm supposed to be. Sometimes I wonder about all these other kids, if any of them feel like they're in some play they never tried out for. Probably not. Most people are too busy pretending.
Outside, the sun hit me like it was trying to fry a vampire or something. There were groups of kids all over, laughing and talking about their weekend plans. Acting like life is so simple. It made me feel lonelier than ever.
"You sure you're okay?" Jamie asked.
"Yeah, fine. Just tired." That's my go-to answer. It's not exactly a lie. Pretending all the time drains you, like keeping a smile plastered on during a shift you can't wait to escape. The kind of exhaustion that seeps in slow—like a phone stuck at 1%, barely holding on, but still expected to keep running.
He stared at me a second too long, like he was trying to read my mind, and I got scared that maybe he could see right through me. That maybe everyone could.
"Whatever, man. Text me later." He bumped my shoulder and left.
I walked home the long way. I do that when I'm feeling confused, which is practically all the time now. I cut through the old church lot and took all these side streets. I didn't want to go home yet and face my mother with her chirpy questions about the school pictures. She'd make this big fuss and say, "Oh, you look so handsome!" and I'd have to stand there nodding like an idiot.
I stopped at this little convenience store on Maple Street. The kind that's been there forever, with those faded ads for cigarettes they're not even allowed to sell to minors anymore. Mr. Patel was behind the counter, scrolling through his phone. He barely looked up when I came in, which I appreciated. Some adults, they look at you like they're trying to figure out what crime you're about to commit. Like being a teenager automatically makes you suspicious or something.
I grabbed a Cherry Coke and a bag of those spicy chips that burn your mouth but in a good way. While I was waiting to pay, I noticed this rack of postcards by the register. They had pictures of our town on them, which is hilarious because nobody in their right mind would ever send a postcard from here. Who would write, "Wish you were here" about a place where nothing ever happens?
But there was this one postcard with the lake at sunset, all purple and orange, that looked almost beautiful. Almost like somewhere else. I added it to my stuff without really knowing why.
"That all?" Mr. Patel asked, ringing me up.
"Yeah, thanks."
He bagged my stuff and I headed out, sipping my Coke. That's another weird thing about me. I buy postcards of places I'm already at, like some tourist in my own life.
I let myself in real quiet when I got home. My mother was in her room with the TV on, thank God. I went straight upstairs to my room, which is the only place I can breathe sometimes.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jamie:
"Yo, you good?"
I stared at it for a minute before typing back: "Yea, all good."
That's another thing that depresses me. How easy it is to lie to people who actually care about you.
My room's the only place I feel halfway human. There aren't any mirrors, for one thing. My father thinks it's because I'm not vain like my sister. My mother thinks it's some weird teenage boy phase. Neither of them has a fucking clue. If they knew what was really going on, they'd probably have me locked up in a loony bin.
I keep this shoebox under my bed. It doesn't look like anything special, which is the whole point. But inside is everything that matters to me. Everything real.
I took out the postcard I just bought and looked at it for a while. Then I grabbed a pen and started writing on the back, not an address or a message, but just words. The kind of stuff I never say out loud:
Some days I feel like I'm drowning in plain sight and nobody notices.
I don't know why I wrote that. It just came out. I added it to the other postcards in my box—a whole collection of messages I've never sent. Sometimes I think about actually mailing one, just picking a random address from somewhere far away. I wonder what the person would think, getting all these weird thoughts from a complete stranger.
My mother knocked on the door, making me jump. I shoved the box back under the bed.
"Mason? Dinner in twenty minutes."
"Okay," I called back, trying to sound normal.
"Everything okay in there?"
"Yeah, just doing homework."
A pause. "Alright. Don't forget to wash your hands."
I heard her footsteps fade away. Parents are weird. They obsess over clean hands but never ask the right questions. Like, "Hey, why do you look like you're dying inside?" or "What's with all the fake smiling?"
I flopped back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. There's this crack up there that looks kind of like a river. I've spent hours looking at it, tracing it with my eyes, wondering where it goes. Stupid, right? But sometimes I think about following that crack all the way to somewhere else. Somewhere I could just be me, whoever that is.
Dinner was the usual nightmare—trying to act normal while feeling like the world's biggest fraud. My father was droning on about work, my mother was asking my sister Addalyn about her dance recital, and I just pushed food around my plate, trying to be invisible.
"Mason, honey, don't you have that math test on Monday?" my mother asked. "Have you been studying?"
I nodded automatically. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Are you feeling okay? You've been so quiet lately."
I could feel everyone staring at me. It made me want to crawl under the table. "I'm fine. Just tired from school."
"Maybe you'd have more energy if you got a haircut," my father said, looking at my hair like it was a personal insult. "It's falling in your eyes again."
"It's fine," I mumbled. I've been trying to grow it out, but every time it gets to a certain length, my father starts making comments.
"Leave him alone," Addalyn said, surprising the hell out of me. "It's just hair."
My father grunted but shut up, and I gave Addalyn a grateful look. She can be okay sometimes, when she's not being a total pain.
After dinner, I helped my mother with the dishes because I'm not a complete asshole. She kept giving me these concerned looks, like she wanted to say something but didn't know how. That's the thing about my mother—she can sense when something's wrong, but she never pushes. I don't know if that makes her better or worse than parents who get all up in your business.
"You know you can talk to me, right?" she said finally, handing me a plate to dry. "About anything."
"I know," I lied. Because what would I even say? Hey Mom, I feel like I'm drowning. I feel like I'm playing a part in some shitty play, and I don't even have the script. I feel like everyone else got the manual for how to be a person, and mine got lost in the mail.
She'd probably send me to therapy or something, which might actually help, I don't know. But the thought of sitting in some office with some stranger who's getting paid to care about my problems makes me want to puke.
"I'm just... going through some stuff," I said, which wasn't exactly a lie.
"Is it... girl problems?" she asked awkwardly.
Jesus Christ. "No, Mom. It's not girl problems."
"Because that's normal at your age—"
"Mom. Please. It's not that."
She patted my shoulder. "Okay. Just remember I'm here if you need me."
I nodded, and we finished the dishes in silence. The worst part is, she means it. She really would be there if I needed her. But I can't tell her what's really going on, because I don't even understand it myself.
Later that night, after everyone went to bed, I got restless. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I stay still too long. So I grabbed my jacket and slipped out the back door, quiet as a ghost.
Our backyard leads right into this wooded area. Not like a real forest or anything, but enough trees to feel like you're somewhere else. There's this clearing I found a few years ago with a fallen log that makes a perfect seat. I go there sometimes when my brain won't shut up.
The sky was clear, with a million stars and a half-moon that made everything look silver. I sat on my log and pulled out my phone. No messages, which was a relief. I wasn't in the mood to pretend to be okay.
I opened the notes app and started typing. Another weird habit of mine. Writing stuff down that I'll never show anyone:
Sometimes I think I'm the only real person in a world full of robots. Everyone else seems to have their programming figured out. Wake up. Go to school. Play sports. Date someone. Make plans for college. Get a job. Die eventually. But my wires got crossed somewhere. My system keeps crashing.
Or maybe it's the opposite. Maybe everyone else is real, and I'm the one who's broken. The glitch in the perfect system.
I looked up at the stars and felt this weird pressure in my chest, like I might cry or scream or laugh or do all three at once. It's so quiet out there at night. Like the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
That's when I heard the snap of a twig behind me. I whipped around, heart pounding.
"Relax, it's just me," Addalyn said, stepping into the clearing. "What are you doing out here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I said, trying to calm down. "Aren't you supposed to be asleep or doing your skincare routine or whatever?"
She rolled her eyes. "Couldn't sleep. I saw your light go past my window." She sat down on the log beside me, not too close. "So this is where you disappear to."
"Sometimes," I admitted.
We sat in silence for a while, which was weird. Addalyn and I don't usually hang out. She's two years older, which might as well be twenty when you're in high school. She's got her own friends, her own life. We basically just exist in the same house.
"You've been acting different," she said finally.
"Different how?"
She shrugged. "Just... not yourself."
I almost laughed. Not myself? If only she knew that I've never been myself. Not really. Not in front of anyone.
"Everyone changes," I said.
"Yeah, but it's more than that." She was looking at me with this strange expression, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "You used to be... I don't know. Happier?"
"Did I?" I genuinely couldn't remember. Had there been a time when I didn't feel this way? When I didn't feel like I was constantly wearing a mask that was too small, cutting into my skin?
"You don't have to tell me," she said. "But whatever it is... it's okay, you know?"
"What's okay?"
"Whatever you're going through. Whatever you're feeling. It's okay."
For a second, I thought about telling her. Just letting all the words spill out. But then what? Then she'd know how messed up I am. How different. How broken.
"Thanks," I said instead.
She nodded, and we went back to silence. But it was a different kind of silence now. Not awkward, just... quiet. Like maybe she understood something about me that I didn't even understand myself.
After a while, she stood up. "We should probably get back before Mom wakes up for her midnight snack and freaks out."
"Yeah," I agreed, following her through the woods.
When we got to the house, she turned to me at the back door. "Hey, Mason?"
"Yeah?"
"You know I've got your back, right? No matter what."
I swallowed hard. "Yeah. I know."
She gave me a little smile, and then we snuck back inside. I lay in bed for a long time after that, thinking about what she said. No matter what. Did she mean it? Would she really have my back if she knew the truth? I wanted to believe it, but experience has taught me that people say a lot of things they don't really mean.
It's almost funny. Everyone thinks teenagers are all emotional and dramatic, making mountains out of molehills. But the truth is, most of us are walking around with these massive mountains inside us, and we're pretending they're molehills. We're just trying to survive until we figure out who the hell we're supposed to be.
I stared at that crack in my ceiling until my eyes started to close. Tomorrow would be another day of pretending. Another day of wearing the mask.
But maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I thought.