apathy

I do not feel.

This morning, a classmate told a joke. The table burst into laughter. I laughed too—the sound slipped out easily. But inside? Nothing. Just the awareness that laughter was the appropriate response, like the way a vending machine knows what snack to drop when a button is pressed. 

No matter how immaculate the façade, the truth sits beneath it. I cannot feel emotions.

I mimic the lines, the gestures, the expected responses, but there’s nothing behind the performance. No joy lingers after a smile, and no sorrow lingers after a sigh. When I smile, the muscles shift because I will them to, not because something stirs inside.

People speak of deep emotion—warmth, passion, and all that—but to me, these are just words. Hollow and abstract and shallow.

I am just an observer in a world which I cannot truly comprehend. Laughter echoes around me, and tears fall in my presence, yet none of it reaches me. I do not feel any of it.

I walk the hallways with practiced rhythm. Nod here. Smile there. The edges of my lips lift, my eyes narrow. People say that makes a smile look “real.” But afterward, when their backs are turned and there is no need to keep up the appearance anymore, the expression falls away as simply as dropping a pencil.

It’s quite easy to hide. No one suspects the emptiness beneath the act. They see the smile, hear the right words, and assume I’m just like them.

But I’m not. I do not feel emotions. The only thing which is close to what I…feel is just a faint awareness of what should be there. A flicker of recognition. It isn’t warmth, nor care, nor love. It’s simply acknowledgement. A logical echo. A response to kindness, not born from feeling, but from understanding that it deserves to be returned.

I am alive, yet not living. Present, yet detached.

I eat lunch under the window every day. The sunlight hits my table at the same angle, sharp and pale, and I trace the shadow of leaves on the floor with my shoe. The scrape of rubber against tile is steady, familiar—more tangible than anything emotional. I think I like the predictability of it, though “like” might not be the right word. It’s simply easier to navigate routines than feelings.

I move through each day like clockwork. Predictable. Precise. Unchanging. The world turns. People laugh, cry, dream, despair…and I continue, untouched.

Sometimes, I wonder how much this absence truly separates me from everyone else. Whether feeling or not feeling changes the outcome of what I do, or who I am to others. They smile at me, wave, call my name, and I respond—not because I feel joy, but because I know it’s what they expect. Because it keeps the rhythm of things undisturbed.

Routine makes everything easier. Patterns replace meaning. I wake, I go, I speak, I return. I maintain the balance, fulfill my part, and life continues. There’s a strange peace in the predictability of it all.

And so, I move forward—silent and consistent.

I do not feel.