There is a moment every morning when I am not myself yet.
It lasts only a few seconds.
Before the alarm. Before the sunlight slips through the blinds. Before I remember that my little brother will need help finding his socks, that my sister will probably be hungry, that Mom will already be getting ready for another twelve-hour shift.
In those few seconds, I am nobody.
And nobody is peaceful.
Then my eyes open.
The ceiling comes into focus first. Then the cracks in the paint. Then my phone beside my pillow, filled with notifications I don't want to answer.
I stare at it until the screen goes dark.
Another day.
My name is Maya, and I am sixteen years old.
Sometimes I think sixteen is supposed to feel different.
People at school talk about parties, college, relationships, weekend plans. I nod when I'm supposed to and laugh when everyone else laughs. I have gotten very good at pretending I understand the rules of being a teenager.
But sometimes, walking through the crowded hallways of my Brooklyn high school, I feel like everyone was given a map except me.
I sit in the back of English class.
My teacher is talking about symbolism, but I am not listening.
Instead, I open my sketchbook.
I draw a girl sitting alone on a subway seat.
Then I draw another version of her sitting between a group of friends.
Then I cross her out.
I start drawing again.
Why did I say that yesterday?
Was that joke stupid?
Did they actually want me there, or were they just being nice?
Why didn't anyone text me last night?
Maybe I'm annoying.
Maybe I'm too quiet.
Maybe I'm too much.
The thoughts pile on top of each other until they become louder than the teacher.
I press my pencil harder against the paper.
"Maya?"
I look up.
The whole class is staring at me.
"Sorry."
A few people laugh.
I smile because that's what I'm supposed to do.
When I look back down, the pencil has broken through the paper.
A tiny hole sits in the middle of my drawing.
I stare at it.
For some reason, I don't erase it.
I close the sketchbook instead.
That sketchbook has been with me through almost everything. It holds drawings nobody has seen, thoughts I was too embarrassed to say, and versions of myself I wish I could become.
Sometimes I think I draw because I want to create something beautiful.
Other times, I think I draw because paper is the only thing that lets me be honest.
After school, I go home.
My brother needs help with his homework. My sister wants a snack. There are dishes in the sink and laundry on the couch. Mom is already getting ready for work.
She kisses us goodbye before leaving.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you too."
The door closes.
The apartment becomes quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just quiet.
I help my siblings with dinner and make sure they get ready for bed. When they finally fall asleep, I sit at the kitchen table with my sketchbook.
I open it to the page from English class.
The girl on the subway is still there.
I pick up my pencil.
For once, I don't draw another version of her.
I draw the girl exactly as she is.
Tired.
Confused.
Alone.
But still sitting there.
Still holding her sketchbook.
Still drawing.
I don't suddenly feel better.
I don't suddenly understand myself.
Tomorrow will probably still be difficult.
I'll still wake up before I'm ready. I'll still worry about what people think. I'll still wonder whether I belong.
But I realize something while staring at the page.
Maybe getting better doesn't always mean becoming someone new.
Maybe sometimes it means learning how to stay with yourself while you're still figuring everything out.
I close my sketchbook.
The apartment is dark except for the kitchen light.
For a moment, I imagine tomorrow morning.
The alarm.
The ceiling.
The sunlight.
That tiny space between sleeping and remembering.
And I know that when I open my eyes, everything will come rushing back.
But maybe, just maybe, I will remember something too.
That I am still here.
And for tonight, that is enough.