I've always wondered what it feels like to be someone else.

Not in a dramatic way. Not body-swapping or waking up rich or suddenly knowing the answers to every math question. I mean the quiet version. What makes you you. The default settings you never chose.

It's a beautiful thing to try to approximate.

I'll borrow someone's habits for a day. Drink something I don't like. Write with my other hand. Listen to music I don't understand. Walk faster. Walk slower. Pretend I don't know even when I do. It never quite works.

You can change clothes, cities, opinions, friend groups. But there's something more that follows you around. Something that only you're tuned into. Sometimes it might not even feel like something that's there. But it's still there, humming like a broken radio.

Here's a thought experiment I keep failing:

Imagine waking up as someone else and not realizing it. Same room. Same phone. Same notifications. But you are different. You speak ever so slightly slower. You notice the creaks in the floorboards more. Magenta looks just a bit different. Some thoughts don't arrive. Others stay on your mind all day.

Would you even notice?

I catch glimpses of this when I'm with the people I love. Not envy, exactly. More like curiosity sharpened into an ache. How do they move through the world without this specific knot? How do they handle rejection so casually, like it never bothered them?

Maybe they're asking the same thing about me. That's the cruel joke. We all look at each other's exteriors like they're final drafts.

I used to think wanting to be someone else meant I didn't like myself. I'm less sure now. Maybe it's just an awareness problem. Like realizing there are colors you can't see, but others can. It doesn't mean your vision is broken. Just limited. Human.

I don't know what it feels like to be someone else. But then again, no one does. Not fully. Not even the people we're trying to imagine.