I’m sitting in my car in the driveway of a house that looks exactly like the four houses next to it, and my hands are still vibrating. It’s 2am. The shift ended hours ago but the auditory feedback loop is still stuck in my head—the clatter of silverware, the high-pitched squeal of the ticket printer, the way the HVAC system hums at exactly 60 hertz. My brain has recorded every single decibel like a fucking forensic technician. I can’t turn it off. I’m staring at the garage door and wondering if I actually exist when nobody is looking at me. Tonight was a "success" by every measurable metric. Table 14, a party of six with three kids and a guy who definitely thinks his entry-level lease-end Audi makes him royalty, told the floor manager I was the best server they’ve had in years. I watched myself do it. I stood there, spine perfectly aligned, making just the right amount of eye contact, and recited the pan-seared branzino special with a level of prosody that would make a goddamn theater major weep. My voice didn't crack once. I even did the little tilt of the head that makes people feel like I’m actually listening to their boring-ass stories about their HOA disputes. Internally, there was a significant physiological disconnect. My sympathetic nervous system was in absolute overdrive—tachycardia, shallow respiration, the whole nine yards—but my motor functions remained localized and precise. It’s like being a passenger in a vehicle that’s currently redlining on the highway while you’re calmly reading the owner's manual. I felt this primal urge to just... vacate the premises. Not even quit. Just walk through the swing doors, past the walk-in, out the loading dock, and keep walking until I hit the state line. I wanted to peel my skin off because the texture of my polyester-blend uniform was becoming an unbearable tactile stimulus. The smell is the worst part. It’s a compound scent: expensive perfume mixed with floor degreaser and the oxidized smell of old nickels. It gets in your hair. While I was explaining the wine list to Table 4, I could feel the humidity of the dining room pressing against my eardrums. Each word I spoke felt like I was physically pushing a heavy stone out of my mouth. I kept thinking about how easy it would be to just scream. Not out of anger, just to see if the sound of my own voice could finally drown out the sound of the ice machine. I didn't, though. I just recommended the Malbec. This is what we do here in the burbs. We perform. My neighbors spend three hours a week edging their lawns to look like a golf course, and I spend eight hours a night pretending I’m not experiencing a total neurological collapse. It’s all about the aesthetic. If you look like you’re winning, you are winning, right? That’s the logic. I make great tips because I’m a high-level mimic. I mimic a person who is happy to be here. I mimic someone who isn't currently calculating the quickest route to the exit to avoid a complete meltdown. I’ve refined the facade to the point where it’s more real to people than I am. At 8:15 PM, the restaurant hit peak occupancy. The ambient noise reached about 85 decibels. A glass broke in the dish pit—that sharp, crystalline sound that usually makes my teeth ache. That was the moment. I was holding a tray of martinis, and I felt this cold, sharp clarity—a realization that I am entirely separate from this body. I looked at the condensation on the glass and thought, *I am going to drop this and run.* My brain was screaming ABORT, EXIT, FLEE. I didn't move an inch. I set the drinks down with millimeter precision. I smiled. I even made a joke about the olive count. But the person who made that joke wasn't me. I don't know where I went. The drive home was a blur of orange streetlights and suburban sprawl. I sat at a red light for three cycles because I forgot that I was the one driving the car. I was just an observer watching a vehicle stopped at an intersection. There’s something deeply fucked up about being this good at lying to everyone. My parents think I’m "doing great." My manager thinks I’m "management material." They see the efficiency, the grace, the perfect recitation of the soup of the day. They don't see the fact that I’m currently vibrating at a frequency that feels like it’s going to shake my teeth loose. Now I’m just staring at the garage door. My ears are still ringing. It’s a physical weight behind my eyes, this pressure that says if I close them, I might never be able to pull the mask back on tomorrow. I’m exhausted but I’m wired. It’s a state of hyper-vigilance that serves no purpose in a quiet cul-de-sac. I’m just waiting for the sun to come up so I can start the simulation all over again. I wonder how long a person can live as a ghost in their own life before the body just gives up too. Fucking hell, I need to go inside.