am i weird?

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i live in fake scenarios more than real ones.

not even on purpose. it just happens.
i’ll be brushing my teeth or looking out the bus window or folding laundry and suddenly i’m not really there anymore. i’m somewhere else. some version of the world where i get to say the right things at the right time. where people understand me without asking. where nothing feels too late.

sometimes i make up whole situations. like i’m walking into a room and someone from my past is there, and they look at me like they still care. or like i’m at some quiet party and someone sees me across the room and just gets it. doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal — just sits next to me and it’s normal. safe. silent in a good way.

sometimes it’s worse. sometimes i imagine arguments that never happened. things i wish i said. comebacks that show up three years too late. or apologies that sound exactly like i needed them to, but in real life never came.
i replay old moments and change the outcome, just to see how it feels.
sometimes it feels better. sometimes it just hurts in a different way.

i’ve imagined being interviewed about my art. not in a famous way. just like… someone finally asking why i make the things i make. and actually wanting to know. not because it looks pretty or because it’s “talented” but because it says something. even if i don’t know what.

i’ve imagined waking up in a completely different place.
same body. same mind. but in a world that looks more like the inside of my head.
soft lights. big windows. piles of fabric and unfinished sketches everywhere. music playing low in the background. a version of me that doesn’t flinch when the phone rings.

sometimes i imagine the people i haven’t met yet.
someone who understands that silence isn’t awkward for me — it’s a love language.
someone who gets why i keep weird objects in boxes and why i talk to myself when i’m nervous.
someone who sees my weird habits and doesn’t call them weird.

sometimes it’s not even romantic. sometimes it’s just friendship in its purest form.
like lying on the floor with someone while it rains outside. sharing snacks. watching something dumb. not needing to explain why i’m quiet that day. just existing.

i also imagine being alone — but in a nice way.
me in a little apartment, rearranging furniture at 2am because i can’t sleep.
making soup. listening to the rain. lighting a candle for no reason.
just being in my own space without pressure.
no messages. no expectations. just me.

i don’t know if this is normal.
if other people do this too.
but these made-up scenes feel more real to me than some of my actual memories.

maybe it’s a way to cope. maybe it’s a form of control.
or maybe it’s just that my mind refuses to sit still, so it builds stories.
quiet ones. soft ones. dramatic ones. sometimes sad. sometimes full of hope.

and no one sees them.
no one ever will.
they exist in silence. in the in-between moments.
but they’re mine.
and they make the world feel less sharp.

– lo