you ever just feel like a total fraud, like a walking, talking billboard for everything you’re not? that’s me. every single morning. waking up at like 5am just to do my hair and makeup, pick out which knockoff bag i’m going to carry today, which exact shade of red lipstick screams ‘old money’ instead of ‘i bought this for $15 on amazon.’ all so i can walk into this luxury car dealership and pretend i belong. like i’m one of THEM. you know? the clients, not the staff. i greet them, “good morning, ms. davis, welcome back.” and she’s probably wearing a real chanel jacket that cost more than my rent for a year, and here i am, smiling like i’m her equal, clutching my *totally authentic* gucci tote. it’s actually insane. the worst part is i’m kinda good at it. like i’ve developed this whole persona. the quiet confidence, the knowing nod, the way i say "of course" when they ask for something ridiculous. my voice even changes, higher, softer, like i’m always a little bit amused by the world. it’s all an act, a desperate performance. sometimes i catch my reflection in the polished glass of the showroom and it’s like… who even IS that girl? she’s not me. i’m still up at 2am cramming for my microeconomics final, eating instant noodles, wondering if i’ll ever actually get out of this student loan debt hole. but at work? i’m poised, i’m polished, i’m… expensive. or at least i look it. today was different though. this guy, like 40s, really slick, super condescending, comes in for a test drive. he’s all smiles to me, very charming but you can tell he thinks i’m just… the help. and he leaves his phone on my desk while he’s signing papers. it rings, and it’s his wife. i see the name. and then he gets this call, right after, from another woman, and it’s her name that flashes up, clear as day. and it hit me. right then. all these rich people, all these fancy cars, the whole facade… it’s all just people pretending. maybe he’s pretending to be a faithful husband. maybe his wife is pretending not to know. maybe everyone’s just faking it till they make it—or faking it indefinitely. and i just stood there, smiling, hand him his keys back, “enjoy your new car, sir.” and inside i’m just screaming. it’s not even about the cheating husband part, it’s about the… everything. the layers of performance. you know that feeling when you’re so deep in a lie, even a tiny one, that you forget where the truth begins? that’s me with this job. i go home and i’m exhausted, not from actual work, but from pretending to be someone else for 8 hours. from holding my stomach in, from remembering which hand to hold my coffee mug in so my fake nail doesn’t chip. now i’m just sitting in my car in the parking lot, it’s completely dark. my apartment is literally three blocks away but i can’t go in. i just can’t face another night of silence, of looking at my textbooks and seeing dollar signs instead of words. i feel so… hollow. like i’ve poured all my real energy into this fake person and there’s nothing left for actual me. what if i never figure out who that is? what if i just keep pretending until i forget? i don’t know. this whole thing is just… a lot.