I guess I was never really human to begin with. Not in the way others were.
I was simply trying to blend in.
Back in my world—the world I left behind—I had always felt different. Misaligned. Out of sync with the people around me. I had friends. I played the part.
Smiled when they smiled. Laughed when the jokes landed. But underneath it all, there was this persistent emptiness. A void that echoed back at me no matter how deeply I tried to bury it.
I hated myself for it. For not being able to understand them. For being other. I hated that I could never mourn properly. When someone died—someone close or distant—it didn't hit me like it hit them.
The tears never came. I would sit in silence, wear the mask of grief, but feel nothing beyond a dull curiosity.
Even in fiction, it was the same. A beloved character dies. The fandom mourns. Online forums flood with emotion. People post heartfelt essays, tributes, even fan art of grief.
