I miss being admired.

I miss walking into rooms
and knowing
someone would say my name
with pride.

I miss doing things that mattered
in ways that were easy to measure.

Now,
no one reads my writing.
I live hours from home
and haven’t gone back in months.
Not even for Christmas.

The girl they clapped for
doesn’t live here anymore.

Here,
I am mid-twenties,
in debt,
with an associate’s degree
and a plan that sounds better in theory
than it feels in my chest.

I quit the job that paid well.
I haven’t found another.
I’m relearning calculus
from things I once knew
like someone retracing steps
in a house they used to own.

Everyone else looks finished.
I feel undone.

I used to be introduced as gifted.
Now I introduce myself as “figuring it out.”

Sometimes I think
maybe I was only impressive
because I was hurting quietly.

Maybe the admiration
was for the mask.

And now that it’s off,
I look like this
unfinished,
in between,
unsure.

I don’t know if this is failure
or just the part of the story
no one applauds.