The Ones You Almost Let In

Eleven years later, the music’s still playing through the wall

Someone said we’re doing the reunion in August.
Eleven years.
Not ten.
We didn’t have a tenth —
which kind of makes sense.
No one was ready to look each other in the eye just yet.
We were still pretending the past didn’t stain.

Tonight, I’m listening to Good Riddance by Green Day,
which is either poetic or pathetic,
but either way it’s doing the trick.
That kind of nostalgia that crawls into your ribs,
kicks its shoes off,
and starts playing home videos on loop
of a version of yourself
you buried but never grieved.

I wasn’t popular.
Wasn’t hated.
I was a floater.
A hallway ghost with decent comedic timing.
Known just enough to wave at,
but not enough to wonder about.
I dipped my toes into every social circle —
stoners, theater kids, student council, burnouts —
but never stayed in long enough to get warm.
Didn't say yes to parties.
Didn’t follow up on the “we should hang sometime.”
I wasn’t excluded.
I just… never let myself be chosen.

And yeah, I was a nerd.
But not the math team kind —
the tech kind.
The kind who lived in a school broadcast studio
like it was my own little kingdom of wires and static.

Our teacher had two classes at the same time —
one room of graphic design kids behind glowing monitors,
and then me,
in the other room,
surrounded by tripods, green screens, stage lights, and chaos.
Sixteen, and somehow running the whole thing.
Teaching the class I was supposed to be learning from.
Quietly legendary in a way no one clapped for.

Most days I’d sit in the corner,
hooked into the sound system,
blasting my music loud enough
for the librarians next door to come banging on the wall.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I never really turned it down.

Because those lyrics?
That was me talking.
That was the closest I ever got to being known.
I let the speakers do the bleeding.
I didn’t have the stomach to do it myself.

I had a few friends.
A few people I almost let in.
But most of those connections faded
like Sharpie on sweaty palms at graduation parties.
Not ripped apart.
Just… unraveled.
Eroded by time, silence, and the way I made everything a joke
before it could become something real.

Because real meant risk.
Real meant someone could see the mess behind the mask.
So instead I made them laugh,
dodged the hug,
laughed off the invite,
turned “maybe” into “never”
without ever saying the words.

There were moments —
quiet invitations, longer stares,
late-night texts that hinted at something warmer —
but I threw humor like a Molotov.
Burned the bridge before anyone could walk across it.

I wasn’t cruel.
I was just scared.
Of being known.
Of mattering.
Of not mattering.

I regret that.
Not in a melodramatic, “I could’ve been prom king” kind of way.
More like —
that could’ve been something.
And I killed it with a punchline.

Now, eleven years later,
we’ll all show up in slacks and summer dresses
pretending we didn’t die a little back then.
Trying to look like we’re thriving
instead of haunted.
Dressing up our ghosts,
pouring drinks over what we lost,
nodding politely when someone says “You haven’t changed.”

But I remember.
I remember who I was.
Who I wasn’t.
And what I almost let happen.

So maybe this time, I’ll show up.
Not for closure.
Not for redemption.
Just… to be seen.
Maybe to see someone else floating too.

And if no one remembers me —
if they forgot the kid in the corner with the speakers too loud —
that’s fine.
I finally remember myself.
And the music’s still playing.

// Scorpio Veil

For the floaters, the ghosts, and the ones who never turned the volume down.