There was a time I envied people I didn’t know.
Not in a loud, bitter way—more like a quiet leaning,
like standing at the edge of someone else’s window
just long enough to see their coffee cup steaming in the light
and imagine what it would be like
to be them, just for a moment,
just for the part where the light hits right.
I envied the man on the train with his sleeves perfectly rolled,
reading a book in Italian like it was written just for him.
I envied the woman at the intersection who crossed the street
like she had always known where she was going.
I envied friends who never paused before speaking,
who laughed without checking the room,
who always knew what to do with their hands
at parties where the music was too loud and the lighting too low.
But then one night, around 2:30 a.m.,
I found myself sitting alone at the kitchen table,
listening to the refrigerator hum like an old monk meditating,
and I asked myself,
not out loud, but in that strange, deep-down voice that only shows up when you’re too tired to pretend—
Would you really trade all of you for all of them?
Not just the way they carry themselves through sunlight,
but the way they crumble when the door closes.
Not just their laughter,
but the shape of their silence.
Not just their grace,
but the grief that lives in their bones,
the fears that dress like logic,
the moments they can’t forgive themselves for,
even if no one else remembers.
Because the truth is,
you don’t get to take someone’s beauty
without carrying their weight.
You don’t get their confidence
without the father they never reconciled with,
or the night they almost gave up but didn’t tell a soul.
Every life comes as one piece.
Seams, scars, stitched-up dreams and all.
No swaps.
No samples.
No trying things on just to see how they feel.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe envy is just the echo of our own shape,
calling us back home.
life 