The bell rings,
and I’m already late,
backpack slung over one shoulder,
papers scattered throughout my bag.

I see a friend laughing,
but their voice sounds distant,
like it belongs in someone else’s memory.

Scrolling through my phone,
messages come and go,
texts, memes, notifications,
but none of it sticks.

The cafeteria smells like greasy pizza and cleaning spray,
the bright lights flicker above,
and I wonder if everyone else
is moving in a film I can’t seem to touch.

At home, homework waits on my desk,
TV drones on in the background,
and I blink,
trying to remember which day it is.

Even sleep feels borrowed,
dreams half-remembered,
like I’m living someone else’s life
slipping through hours that aren’t mine.

And still, I move,
step by step,
because this blurred life
is the only one I have.