What does it feel like to be wrong?
There’s a specific memory in my mind: I’m wearing my blue dress (with the buttons down the back and the chain you gave me), and I see you breathe from a mile away. You’ve got on your tennis shoes you’ve worn since – I don’t know – before we kissed, and I think it’s funny you wore sneakers with a dress shirt. I’m not laughing though, and she’s got a grip so tight on your arm that if we shared a smile, your veins might burst inside your very sleeve.
Suddenly I breathe, too, and it’s a loud and loathsome sigh as you pass. You stare at me, and my fear succumbs to scarlet blush. Aching rubs in all the painful parts once again, and it’s more of an oozing and bloody gash than a sore muscle (but you know I’d never complain).
That’s what it feels like to be wrong.