Does anyone else feel like they are just wearing a human suit while the rest of their soul is screaming in a different language? I’m sitting here at 2 AM, the blue light of my phone burning my eyes, and I can’t stop thinking about the denim table at the store today. It was a disaster area. Some teenager had gone through the 26s and 27s like a whirlwind, leaving a heap of indigo fabric that looked more like a salvage pile than a retail display. Usually, I would have it squared away in ten minutes. I have this internal clock that ticks in sync with the folding board, a leftover reflex from the years I spent making sure my bunk was tight enough to bounce a quarter off of. (Old habits die hard, even when you want them to stay dead). But today, I just stood there. I looked at the mess and I felt this white-hot spark of rage flare up in my chest. It wasn’t about the jeans. It was about the fact that I am twenty-five years old, I have seen things that would make these suburban shoppers lose their minds, and here I am, expected to care about the "aesthetic integrity" of a mid-rise skinny jean. I reached out to grab a pair of flares, and my hand just... stopped. I pulled back. I walked away and left the heap right there on the table. It felt like a desertion. I spent the next three hours doing the bare minimum. I moved hangers an inch to the left. I stared at the security feed. I let the clearance rack become a graveyard of mismatched sizes and fallen plastic. Every time I saw a customer drop a shirt on the floor, I just watched them do it. I didn’t move. I didn’t "provide excellent service." I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. (It’s funny how easy it is to disappear when you’re standing right in front of someone). Then my manager, Diane, came over around 5 PM. She’s one of those women who smells like vanilla and expensive laundry detergent—the kind of person who has never had to wonder if the loud bang outside was a car backfiring or something much worse. She looked at the section I had been "working" on, which was objectively a wreck, and then she looked at me. She smiled this bright, genuine smile that made me want to TEAR my hair out. "I just wanted to say thank you," she said. She actually put a hand on my shoulder. "You’re such a rock for this team. I never have to worry about your sections because you’re so disciplined. You’re the only one I can really rely on to keep things professional." I felt like she had slapped me. I was standing there, literally having quit in my head hours ago, and she was praising me for the shadow of the person I used to be. I didn’t correct her. I just nodded and said, "Thanks, Diane," like a good little soldier. Am I the only one who feels like a total fraud when people compliment their "work ethic"? It’s not work ethic. it’s a mask. It’s a costume I put on because I don't know how to function in this soft, civilian world without a set of orders to follow. But the orders are getting harder to hear lately. I feel this intense ANGER at her for not seeing through it. How can she be so oblivious? I’m standing there with my teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches, and she thinks I’m the "reliable" one. (She has no idea how close I am to just walking out the sliding glass doors and never coming back). I keep thinking about the stakes. In my old life, if you stopped doing your job, people got hurt. If you were sloppy, there were consequences that actually mattered. Here, if I don’t fold the t-shirts, some lady doesn't find her size medium as fast as she’d like. It’s so small. It’s so incredibly petty. And yet, the fact that I couldn't even bring myself to do this small, stupid thing today makes me feel like I’m breaking apart. I’m angry that I’m expected to care, and I’m even angrier that I’ve reached a point where I finally don’t. Is this what it’s like for everyone else? Are you all just performing? I look at my coworkers and they seem so invested in the "Spring Launch" or whatever corporate nonsense we’re pushing this week. I feel like I’m watching a play from the wings and I’ve forgotten all my lines. I’m tired of being the "reliable" one when the person they’re relying on isn’t even there anymore. I’m still awake because the silence of my apartment feels too heavy. I keep seeing the denim table in my head—that messy, unraveled pile of blue. It’s still there. I didn’t fix it. Part of me hopes Diane sees it tomorrow morning and realizes I’m not the person she thinks I am. But another part of me knows I’ll probably go in tomorrow, put on the vest, and fold every single pair with terrifying precision... because I don’t know what else to do with myself. Does anyone else feel this way? Like you're just waiting for someone to finally notice that you're gone? Or am I just losing it?