Chapter 3: ???

 I know exactly where to begin. Or at least, I think I do.

 I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection that's somehow both too familiar and strangely foreign. The faded posters on my walls seem to mock me, each one a relic of who I once hoped to be, while the vision board—tacked with half-baked dreams I've circled and underlined a hundred times—whispers of possibilities I'm too afraid to reach. The disarray of my room mirrors the disarray of my thoughts. I can't help but wonder if this tangled existence is a punishment or merely a byproduct of longing for something better. I guess you could call it a mess. But it's my mess.

 I've been playing this game for too long—watching, waiting, daydreaming, and pretending I'm not consumed by an obsession that feels both reckless and necessary. Pretending, though, is a dangerous art. Who am I fooling? Certainly not myself. And definitely not him. Every morning, as the sun begins to seep through the dusty blinds, I try to muster a semblance of purpose. I tell myself that if I don't reinvent who I am, I'll forever be trapped in the shadow of my own inaction.

 The truth is, I've been thinking about this a lot lately—about who I am, who I could be, or rather, who I should be. If I want him to see me, I have to be someone, right? But that's the problem: I don't even know where to start. I've been scribbling ideas on scraps of paper and drafting lists that never quite add up. I'm left with fragments of dreams and visions of a life where I'm noticed, admired, maybe even loved. And yet, every time I try to piece them together, the uncertainty overwhelms me. I'm desperate to morph into someone worth noticing, but in the process, I despise the very notion that I have to change at all. It's all so… stupid.

 For years, I've hidden behind oversized sweaters—loose, baggy garments that serve as a cocoon. They're my armor against the world's prying eyes, my way of saying, "I'm not here to be seen." But every morning, in the solitude of my small apartment, I make a ritual out of changing. I select a new outfit like it's a performance, an act of bravery where I try on identities that might finally let me break free of invisibility. I pick something "new," something different, hoping that maybe, just for a fleeting moment, I might feel less like the anonymous girl the world seems to ignore. Yet, each attempt only deepens my question: Why am I even trying? For whom am I trying—if not for someone who might finally matter?

 In my quiet moments, I document every change, every so-called "improvement." I snap pictures and write long, rambling journal entries about my day-to-day battles with self-doubt and the yearning to be seen. But of course, no one notices. The digital space is vast and impersonal, filled with countless voices echoing into nothingness. I know I'm not naive enough to believe that the internet will someday crown me as something extraordinary. It's not for them—it's for me. In a twisted way, I cling to the hope that if I keep sharing pieces of myself, one day he will stumble upon them and see what I have to offer.

 And yet, I'm painfully aware of the cruel irony: I'm chasing after a dream that seems as unreachable as the stars outside my window. He's too busy being perfect, existing in a world that I can only glimpse through fragments of stolen moments and blurry social media snapshots. It's not like he'll ever scroll past one random post and think, "Hey, that's the one." No, the idea is absurd. But I can pretend. I can convince myself that every post, every carefully curated image, every tentative step into the unknown is a piece of a larger puzzle—an invitation for him to notice me.

 In the evenings, I've started venturing out to art shows and indie exhibits—places where the walls are lined with expressions of raw creativity, where people gather not just to admire art, but to be seen as part of something bigger. I don't know if I care about the art itself, or if it's merely a backdrop for my internal performance. It's not about the art, really—it's about the people who wander through these spaces, trading shallow glances and whispered judgments, all the while playing their own part in a grand, unspoken drama. It's a game, one with rules I'm only beginning to understand. And the worst part? I've started to realize that I might actually be good at it.

 At home, I return to an old habit—writing. Not because I believe it will somehow transform me overnight, but because the torrent of thoughts inside me needs to be tamed, if only on paper. I pour out poems, journal entries, snippets of raw emotion that capture the chaos of my mind. Sometimes, I post these musings on my blog, not out of a desire for fame, but to test the waters of validation, even if that validation is as fleeting as a digital "like." Spoiler alert: they don't care. The silence that follows each post is deafening, yet it somehow comforts me in its familiarity.

 And then there's him. No matter how much I try to distract myself, his presence looms large. His face haunts me—even when I force myself to forget. It's been over a year since that absurd, life-altering encounter at Miss Onil's, and yet his voice—damn it, his voice—echoes in my head like a broken record. The sheer audacity of him, saving me from that embarrassing moment, offering nothing in return except a cryptic smile and a few choice words. That singular moment has morphed into an obsession, a myth I replay in my mind until it becomes both unbearable and irresistible. I know I shouldn't care. I really shouldn't. And yet, I do—and the worst part is, I don't even know why.

 I sometimes wonder if I'm not chasing an illusion, if my yearning is simply a manifestation of the void within me. I search for fragments of myself in every corner of the city, in every conversation that brushes past me like a whisper. I hope that by reinventing myself over and over, I might finally fill the emptiness that drives me to keep longing for a connection that seems forever out of reach.

 So here I am—trying to piece together a self that the world might finally recognize. I'm fumbling in the dark, reaching for a version of me that seems to exist only in dreams and half-remembered fantasies. I'm fighting to transform into someone worth noticing, though every step forward is marred by self-doubt. I'm not here to make sense of it all, to articulate some grand epiphany about identity or destiny. I'm simply trying to exist in a world where I feel invisible, desperate for a spark of recognition that might light the way.

 And who knows? Maybe one day I'll figure out what it is I'm really searching for. Maybe one day I'll understand that the pursuit of being seen is less about him—or anyone else—and more about finally accepting who I am. But until that day comes, I'll keep playing this game, clinging to the hope that somewhere, in some alternate universe, he will look at me and see more than just another anonymous face.

 I know it sounds stupid. It might even be the most foolish endeavor imaginable. And yet, this is the only certainty I have right now, the only conviction that keeps me from fading into oblivion. I'm not perfect, and I doubt that I ever will be, but there's a raw beauty in the struggle—a fierce determination in the quiet rebellion of trying to be seen.

 I stand in front of the mirror one last time before the day begins anew. I take a deep breath and let the reflection sink in, the imperfections and the scars, the dreams and the disappointments merging into a single, fragile reality. I tell myself that maybe one day I'll no longer need to pretend, that someday I'll wake up and truly believe in the person I see. But for now, the masquerade continues. I'll keep playing, keep writing, keep searching for the moment when everything changes.

 But we both know that's a lie.