"Fake it till you make it."

It's the type of thing he's read out of fortune cookies, but he would just as soon choke on the cookie itself.

It's been so hard and so fruitless. Not the cookie. Well, the cookie was hard and without fruit too, but what it said was even more so.

Fake it. Why? Why should he have to fake it? These emotions that he doesn't feel and empty, hollowed-out smiles.

And even though he does, how long will it take to make it? Is he ever going to make it? Will he see the finish line? Or will he collapse midway through the race and get trampled by dozens of feet?

Hey, no cleats!

But things haven't been the same. He can't fake that. He can't fake that none of the right words come out, that laughter has never felt so forced and hugs have never felt so remote.

No one should be alone. No one should have space.

It's okay if you don't understand it though. He hardly understands it himself.

And there's that stupid fucken cookie. Laughing at him with those upturned lips on table cloth that is a little too white. Or maybe it's a frown.

It doesn't matter. The cookie has more inside it than he ever will.

That stupid fucken cookie.