Official

The pen hovers above the line.

I can feel it happening—

my hand becoming someone else's hand

when it's time to sign something official.

My name at the top in faded letters.

The blank space below, waiting.

I write it slow. Too slow.

Each letter careful, deliberate,

like I'm forging my own identity

to prove I'm real enough to rent this space.

The cursive isn't mine.

It's the version of me that exists on documents.

On leases. On forms.

The one who has control.

The one with a steady hand.

The one who looks like they can afford

the deposit and the first month's rent.

The real signature—the fast, messy one

I use for coffee receipts—

that one doesn't get to show up here.

That one isn't official enough.

So I become someone else.

Someone with precision.

Someone who can prove their worth

through penmanship.

When it's done, it looks like forgery.

Like I've impersonated myself into eligibility.

The landlord takes the form.

Doesn't look at it twice.

Doesn't know that the person who just signed

isn't the same person who walks these halls

at 4 AM unable to sleep.

Isn't the same person who said something cruel

to a stranger and can't stop thinking about it.

There's an official version of me now.

Bound to paper. Bound to this place.

And then there's the rest of me.

The one with the real signature.

The one that nobody asks for.