There are a million of me.
More than a million, actually.
Each one exists in the head of every person that’s ever seen me.
To the bus driver I met this morning,
the me they see is the me that barely made it on, breathless with a hairbrush in one hand, and in the other, coffee.
To the professor I greeted before the lecture,
the me they see is the me that’s never late, punctual and prepared, and is as 'put together' as 'put together' can be.
To the person who sat across me in the lecture theatre,
the me they see is the me with my head always bowed, eyes diligently glued to the paper, and my pen always at the ready to take notes.
To the person who sat beside me during the hall,
the me they see is the me trying to hide my face, biting my tongue to suppress a smile as I check my phone, and doodle between peeks.
To the people who don’t necessarily know me but see me,
the me they see is probably happy.
To the people who’ve been around long enough to see me be, well, me,
they know the same is true, but to a different degree.
To those who don’t like me,
the me they see is the me they painted in their heads,
a version of me I’d rather not be.
Of the millions of me’s there are in the heads of the people I meet,
none of those me's are really me.
Of the millions of me’s, there is only one me that's really me,
and that’s the me I see.