Someone told me to be the bigger person, but if life is an arena, then this is a show. I read the script and poured my heart into the performance, wildly replaying it in my head. I crave genuine connections—and it actually had the potential.
Back when I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I thought of this place as a mentor, a protégé, and a timekeeper. My flaw-filled talent was celebrated. I clapped when they did the tightrope flawlessly, or dangled from a thin rope fearlessly. We were the A-team the neighbors were notoriously jealous of.
But when night fell and the performance turned sour, the ringmaster shouted, “Not my circus! Not my monkeys!” I was blindsided by the act—it was louder than any silence. And this talentless star was left on the stage to meet the ambition-driven, moving crowd.
“Has this turned into a shit show, or is it just in my head?” As I turned around, I realized just how much I used to care about these people—but now I know loyalty isn’t carved out of kindness alone. People protect who they want to protect.
And so I ran for my life.
I stole the script because I knew it was within reach, but I soon discovered the bitter truth: I lose when I win, and they lose even when they win. The chaos would haunt me from behind, but I wasn’t the one tearing it down with vitriol. I just lamented the potential it all had—I used to really, really care about these people. I used to be one of them.
Someone told me to be the bigger person, but I don’t like fake things, and I’m not good at playing charades.
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