Objectification

The posters on the wall are faded. The furniture looks familiar, but nothing has your scent, your shape, your life. When you step outside, the campus air feels thick with something you can’t name - not dread or confusion... but something far worse: dismissal. No one looks surprised to see you. In fact, they don’t seem to see you at all. A girl in the courtyard waves at you cheerfully. For a moment, you think she recognizes you. But when she reaches you, she grabs your wrist and ties her bike to it. “Thanks,” she says. “You’re sturdy.” You try to speak — to shout, to move — but the words fall flat on her ears, seemingly swallowed by the air like a whisper into fog. As the day goes on, people keep using you. Someone props their textbook on your shoulder during a lecture. Someone else leans against your chest like a table. No one asks permission. No one even hesitates. You’re not invisible. You’re useful. You begin to notice that everyone else has something in common — confidence, belonging, names. You don’t seem to have any of those. Even your ID card is blank. When you ask a teacher where you’re supposed to go, they blink and say, “Storage, I think. Lost property usually stays there until it’s claimed.” It’s not that people hate you — they just don’t think you’re real. You’ve become an object with a heartbeat. The only thing you can feel that still belongs to you is the quiet anger building in your chest. You don’t know how you got here, but you know this much: you are not an object. Includes Autocards by LewdLeah ❤️