barely, but still

there’s always gonna be someone better than me.
i know that.
i’ve always known that.

but it doesn’t stop the ache from creeping in
every time someone does something
i thought i was good at—
only better.
more effortless.
more seen.

it’s like i’m constantly being reminded
that i’m not enough,
at least not in the way i hoped to be.

i pretend like it doesn’t bother me.
i nod.
i smile.
i say “that’s amazing,” and i mean it—
but not without swallowing a piece of myself.

because deep down,
i’m grieving a version of me
that could’ve been impressive too.
that almost was.

it’s stupid, right?
this need to be the one.
to be someone’s favorite.
to be the name someone brings up when they’re proud.

i want that so badly it hurts.
i want someone to say,
“that’s them. that’s who i admire.
that’s who i’m lucky to know.”

but instead,
i’m always in the background.
i’m the almost.
the maybe.
the “you’re good, but—”

i’ve always carried this quiet desperation to be chosen.
not just loved,
but admired.

to be someone people brag about,
not because of titles or achievements,
but because of me.

because i meant something.
because i was worth holding onto.

and it’s not that i don’t try.
god, i try so hard.

but no matter what i do,
there’s this voice in my head whispering,
“someone else could do it better.
someone else already has.”

sometimes,
i wish i could silence that voice.
but most of the time,
i just wish i mattered enough
for someone else to silence it for me.

i’ve never said this out loud.
maybe because i’m afraid
people would tell me i’m being dramatic.
or insecure.
or worse—they’d agree with me.

but it’s always been there.
in the pauses between conversations.
in the quiet moments after a compliment
that doesn’t quite feel earned.
in the silence of feeling unseen.

i don’t want to be perfect.
i just want to be enough.
for someone.
for myself.

and maybe, one day,
i will be.

but for now,
i’m just trying to live with the ache.
the ache of being almost.
the ache of being close, but not quite.
the quiet ache
of wanting to be someone’s pride,
but only ever making it to their memory.

and even then—
just barely.