The Understudy

I watch myself not speak. The silence is polite. Measured. It fits the room.

I feel the breath swell in my chest—just slightly—ready to say something real. Something too alive. Too unguarded. But she catches it. Smooths it down. Answers with a smile, a small turn of the head. Something neutral. Safe.

She’s always been good at that.

I live just behind my own voice. Close enough to feel it forming, far enough not to shape it. I think I meant to laugh just now—full and honest and maybe a little loud. But she reached for the smaller version instead. Just a chuckle. It lands. Of course it does.

She knows when to nod, when to lower her eyes, when to tilt her head like she’s listening—really listening—even when she’s not. She knows how to keep everything soft. Contained.

And there’s comfort in that. I won’t pretend there isn’t. She’s protected me from saying too much. From showing too much. From becoming too visible.

But—

Sometimes—

I want to say something that doesn’t land right. I want to blurt. To get it wrong. To let the silence hang after I speak and not scramble to fill it.

The conversation shifts. Book club. The usual list of volunteers. And something inside me expands, just slightly.

I want to offer. Not because I’m good at hosting—I’m terrible at it. I burn dinner rolls and forget to buy napkins. But I want the mess of it.

I want people to see my actual books— the dog-eared ones, the romance novels I hide behind serious spines. I want to admit I didn’t finish the chapter.

But before I can speak— she exhales. Softly. Like she flattened the air before it could rise.

And I smile. I hear myself say, “Oh, I wish I could, but things are so busy right now.”

I feel the breath that might have become something different—something brave—fold itself inside my ribs.

She remembers which parts of me people find easy. The story about the goldfish. The joke about getting lost in my own neighborhood. Not the ones about feeling invisible at family dinners.

She lets me complain about work just enough to seem tired. Not enough to seem lost. She asks people about their lives and listens without letting them ask back.

Even her hands are quieter than mine used to be. She folds them. Rests them on her lap. No wild gesturing. No tugging at sleeves.

She’s learned to move through this world without making ripples. And I’ve let her.

Because I’m tired. And she’s careful. And it’s easier—so much easier— to keep letting her do the breathing.

I sit beneath it all. Still. Breath held. Like it’s the last thing that belongs to me.

She pretends not to notice the things I see. Not because she’s blind— but because noticing demands a response.

Someone’s voice cracks on the word fine. Someone glances twice at the door before finishing a sentence. Someone talks too fast, like they’re afraid they’ll forget who they’re supposed to be.

I see it. All of it.

She smooths over the gaps. She fills the space with something neutral, light, inoffensive.

But I am beneath all that, straining toward something unscripted.

I want to say: I liked the way you went quiet for a moment. I noticed how your hand trembled when you lifted your glass. I think you’re trying very hard to seem okay.

But she is already moving us forward. Not cruelly—just carefully. Carefully enough to keep us invisible.

And then— a question.

Pointed. Honest. A small, startling thing. What do you think?

Her breath pauses.

And this time— she doesn’t fill the silence. Not right away.

She waits. Longer than usual.

And I feel it. That flicker— a fragile moment, just wide enough to step through.

I’m right there.

I could take it. I could take the breath.

But she finds hers first. And the moment folds.

Still— I felt it. Just the edge of it.

The shape of what it could be.

And maybe next time, when the moment comes—

Maybe next time, I’ll be ready.