Who’s alright?

“Please just tell me you’re alright,” you whisper, and so I do.

“I’m alright,” I tell you, “I promise.” Even though I’m not. Even though I don’t.

But you’ve never been able to tell my truth from my lies, my pinky promises from my empty ones, my mouth smiles from the ones that reach my eyes. You see what you like to see, you live in a world of your own making, where you are the axis around which every living being revolves, and you are scared to acknowledge that this life you’ve created is a cracked eggshell. I don’t know if you’d even believe me if I told you that I’m not alright. I don’t know how much that would break you.

So when you request a reassurance, I give it to you. It’s not unlike a business transaction: you pick up the phone and dial for a platter of sushi, and I bring it up to you like a dutiful bellhop. You take the sushi without looking at my face or thanking me with my name, and I go back downstairs for my next delivery. You want me to say that I’m alright?

I’ll do it.

I’ll do it, because I know that you are even less alright than I am.