High Functioning

1. Not Me, Not Mine

February 5th

Dear Diary

I wake up every day like I've already lived it. 
Sometimes it feels like I'm sinking into something cold and quiet, and no one even sees me go under.

I'm scared................

***

Someone was watching her.

Not from across the street. Not from a car window. Not from the shadowed mouth of an alleyway.

From inside her.

Relly didn't flinch. She didn't stop walking. The sidewalk under her boots pulsed with the memory of sleepless nights. Her coat clung to her narrow shoulders like wet cloth, though there was no rain. Her long, dark brown hair was coiled into a loose bun, strands escaping and sticking to her damp neck. The air was thick and stale. Everything felt wrong.

Her cheekbones were drawn, as if sleep had abandoned her for weeks. Her eyes—almond-shaped, hazel and rimmed with exhaustion—flickered from shadow to shadow as she adjusted her scarf with trembling fingers. The motion was smooth, practiced and performed.  Yet, she kept walking despite it all.

A man sat at a bus stop, gaunt and unmoving, his mouth slightly ajar as he stared into a place that didn't exist. Behind her, a stray cat with matted grey fur limped toward a drain. Somewhere, a dog howled and didn't stop. Her boots slapped the pavement too sharply. Her breath scraped her throat like static. Every step felt misaligned and was half a beat behind reality.

There was no scream. No crash. No chasing shadow. Yet her spine coiled like a wick burning from both ends. Her body braced for an impact that never came.

That was the cruelty of it.

It hummed beneath her skin, through her breath and behind her blinks. It was like her bones had become a hallway for something else to crawl through. Something wrong.

Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. She didn't rush to check. Her fingers already knew what was waiting. She pulled it out anyway. A text message from Mom.

Mom: you didn't forget my birthday, did you

Lowercase. No punctuation. Casual, weaponized.

Her stomach knotted. Not out of guilt, but something denser. Something closer to shame. She didn't forget. She just didn't want to remember, and now the moment was already soured.

Another message came in before she could respond.

Mom: still no call. not even a text. what kind of daughter...

Relly shoved the phone into her pocket and kept walking, not bothering to read the rest of the message. She would respond in a minute. She just needed to breathe. But she could already hear the tone her mother would use when she finally called. That soft, quiet disapproval. No raised voice. No direct name-calling. Just disappointment, stretched out across every sentence.

And then—

She did it. But she didn't feel herself doing it.

Her hand moved on its own. Her fingers typed with perfect ease. Her lips curved into a practiced, soft smile that she didn't remember choosing.

happy birthday mum. I've been swamped this morning but I'll call you on break. love you always. hope today's beautiful x

She hit send and blinked.

The message stared back. Polished. Sweet. Empty.

Relly looked at the message like someone else sent it.