By Shreya Nanduri
The doorbell buzzes on a late Sunday afternoon.
She walks in through the door and crashes on my sofa
as if she belongs there.
She is upset today, starts ranting
about something she read somewhere,
how the world is unfair,
and how I have been ignoring her.
She is childlike in her hurt,
eyes pooled with tears,
hugging the cushion
as if it were armor.
I stare at her curiously,
nodding lightly as she “unpacks her feelings.”
She looks down and sighs,
tells me,
“I feel I’m too much yet not enough, all at once.”
I look at her, lost.
Why is she here again?
She is not my friend.
I don’t know who she is.
She is a puzzle to me
this version of myself
that I’m trying to understand.