“Hey, man,” he said, smiling. “You know where the protein powder is?” His voice was smooth, effortless, like he belonged anywhere he went.

I pointed him to aisle 5, and as he turned to leave, he said, “Thanks, bro.” Bro.

I stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. I knew it didn’t mean anything, but I wanted it to. I imagined Chad lingering, asking about my day, maybe laughing at one of my bad jokes. But he didn’t. He just walked away.

Finished my shift, went home, and stared at my reflection in the microwave door. Whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630791&forum_id=2:#48314526)

I'm fine, I thought to myself.

I'm fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630791&forum_id=2:#48460876)

You think it was for you, but it wasn’t. It was for the space between who you are and who you think Chad is—two strangers, circling shelves of powdered illusions.

The worst part isn’t that you’re not "fine."

It’s that maybe he isn’t, either.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630791&forum_id=2:#48460885)