LURK

The Diagnosis

You have been in that group chat for four years. You have seen every argument, every weird breakup, every screenshot. You have read every message within 45 seconds of it being sent. You have never once participated. Not a reaction, not a thumbs-up, not a "lol." You're there. They know you're there. Occasionally someone will say "[name] has been quiet" and you'll feel a small, specific pleasure at being referenced without being present. That pleasure is the point.

Your silence isn't social anxiety — though it will be mistaken for that, and you will let it be. Your silence is a choice, and the choice is to have access without risk. You've seen what happens to people who type. You've seen the ones who got piled on, misread, put in their place. You would rather be the quiet one who "everyone forgets is still here" than the one whose joke didn't land at 11:47pm on a Tuesday. The calculation has been made. Every day it renews.

The thing is, you're one of the most well-informed people in your own life. You remember who said what to whom in 2022. You could, if called upon, reconstruct the chronology of any given conflict with the precision of a court reporter. Nobody ever calls on you, because they don't know you have the file. That's fine. That's how it should be. You are a room nobody can find. You are not hiding — you are stored. Until needed. If needed. You don't insist.