Unshaken.

It's subtle, but it's there. I can feel it, and you know it too. Our eyes meet, but our laughter doesn't have the mirth it once had.

The hands that were left unshaken, the hands that should have been clasped in greeting, remain motionless. They are our hands, separated by an invisible barrier built out of respect—at least, that’s what we call it. Some gentlemanly, chivalrous idea, noble in intention but twisted in its execution. It sounds more like disrespect.

A simple acknowledgment would have gone a long way. What is meant to be some holy form of respect feels like a dismissal, a negation of my presence, as though I am invisible, unworthy of being drawn into the conversation. Does my body, does my mouth intimidate you? Does the very thought of my words unsettle you? 

It stings every time it's noticed, yet my body has grown accustomed to it. My eyes no longer widen in shock, but my heart still flinches. It isn’t unfortunate that it continues to hope. It’s that stubborn hope that leans towards the idea of change, that maybe tomorrow will be different.

But this feeling... it’s relentless, as if it has made a home within me. I notice it every day, but today, it’s particularly sharp. I feel it again, reminding me of who I am—or rather, who I’m expected to be. The assumptions weigh heavily on me before I even open my mouth, before my name is uttered. 

It’s as though something is fundamentally wrong with me, something so viscerally unsettling that others feel the need to handle me with care, as if I were made of glass, delicate and easily shattered. And yet, despite the scream that shatters inside me, nothing ever breaks. I remain perfect. Sit still and look pretty. 

How much longer I can hold onto hope before it too slips away?