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I think I’ve spent my entire life watching other people connect from behind a wall I can’t name. I can see them laugh, click, fold into each other’s lives like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I stand outside it, always outside it.
I’m autistic, I’m not cute autistic, I’m not quirky or endearing. I’m the kind that makes people uncomfortable without knowing why, the kind that gets left on read, the kind that makes rooms go silent just by existing in them wrong. There’s something about me that people instinctively avoid. I’ve never been able to name it, I just know it’s there.
Every attempt I’ve made to get close to someone has ended the same way, with them pulling away. Sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. I’ve learned to expect it, it’s not even surprising anymore. Just a dull ache that keeps getting heavier each time.
Like carrying a bag full of things you can’t throw away.
I’m autistic, I’m not cute autistic, I’m not quirky or endearing. I’m the kind that makes people uncomfortable without knowing why, the kind that gets left on read, the kind that makes rooms go silent just by existing in them wrong. There’s something about me that people instinctively avoid. I’ve never been able to name it, I just know it’s there.
Every attempt I’ve made to get close to someone has ended the same way, with them pulling away. Sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once. I’ve learned to expect it, it’s not even surprising anymore. Just a dull ache that keeps getting heavier each time.
Like carrying a bag full of things you can’t throw away.