Page 121 of Invisible Bars
On the runway, the lights hit me like a wall—hot, blinding, and everywhere at once. The beat of the music pounded in my chest like itwas trying to keep me upright. I couldn’t see anyone’s faces, just silhouettes and flashes.
I locked my eyes on the end of the runway… one foot in front of the other. Just make it to the end… but my body had other plans.
My head snapped hard to the left. Then again. My shoulder rose and dropped in a sharp spasm. My jaw clenched and unhinged with a loud click.
"Shit!" I barked—too loud, too sudden.
Gasps cut through the music. My chest forced out a loud grunt, followed by a strained, involuntary moan. My right arm flung outward, stiff, then jerked back. My left leg twitched mid-step, but I didn’t stumble.
“Orange juice with attitude!” I blurted, the words flying out fast and meaningless.
Someone up front visibly flinched.
I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t even explain it.
The more the crowd stared, pointed and some clutching their pearls, the higher my anxiety rose and the worse the tics became by the second.
I hated that part the most—how the words never made sense. Just nonsense. Curse words. Weird phrases. Noise, my body decided to throw out like confetti in a storm.
I blinked hard—rapid, repetitive. My lips smacked together, making sharp popping sounds. Then I shouted again, without warning:
"Slap a squirrel on Sunday!"
More gasps. A camera lowered. I could hear murmurs now. Quick whispers.
They stared… I felt it—their confusion… their discomfort. But I walked like their judgment didn’t exist.
My legs knew what to do—thank God for muscle memory. My stride stayed steady, my arms grazing the silk at my sides like I wasn’t activelytrying to hold myself together with invisible tape or on the edge of falling apart in front of everyone.
My nose scrunched and my throat pushed out another bark. Then a strange, stuttering phrase tumbled out.
“Left-right-left… banana!”
That time, a woman in the second row pressed a hand to her chest. Another leaned toward her friend. The runway lights felt hotter now—like punishment instead of a spotlight.
My neck jerked again. My brow furrowed without warning, then smoothed. My tongue pressed hard against the roof of my mouth.
“Wrong hat, wrong day!” I shouted suddenly.
Still, I moved like I belonged there and like my tics weren’t stealing pieces of my pride with every step.
When I reached the end of the runway, I posed. Chin up. Back straight. Face blank—except for the twitch that pulled the corner of my mouth sharply to the side.
I turned, and just then, my jaw wrenched and locked before snapping loose with a loud pop. A strangled, high-pitched howl escaped me.
Someone in the front row dropped their phone.
I didn’t pause. Instead, I walked all the way back—head high, arms fluid, mouth twitching, and shoulders bouncing from suppressed spasms. My chest pumped another noise I couldn’t trap in time.
“F-f-fresh frog legs!”
I could feel my body buzzing, flaring, fighting me every step of the way.
Again, I kept going, and walked as if I was in control, even as every part of me screamed otherwise.
The moment the curtain closed behind me, the spotlight disappeared—but the sting of humiliation didn’t.
Then came the laughter.
