Proof of Entry

She wore it like it meant something—

the lanyard, the badge,

the plastic card catching the light

as she walked past me in the store.

Young enough that it was still new,

still something to be proud of,

something that said: I belong here,

I have permission,

I am official.

The lanyard hung at a careful angle,

the way you wear something

you've just earned,

something that matters,

something that says

you've been let in.

I watched her move through the store

like she owned the place,

like the badge gave her authority,

like the plastic rectangle

had transformed her into someone

who knows what she's doing,

who has a place,

who isn't faking it.

I wanted to tell her:

the confidence won't last,

the badge won't protect you,

the lanyard will eventually

feel like a weight around your neck

instead of a ticket to belonging.

But she didn't ask.

She just moved through,

sure of herself,

sure of the card,

sure of the permission.

And maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe some people keep that confidence.

Maybe some people wear the badge

without it becoming a burden.

Maybe some people never learn

that belonging is temporary,

that permission can be revoked,

that the lanyard just proves

you paid the price for entry,

not that you'll ever feel

like you deserve to be here.

She moved past me,

the plastic catching the light,

the lanyard swinging,

and I felt something

like envy,

like grief,

like I was mourning

a confidence I never had.