For me, almost was never just a word.
It was a quiet verdict wrapped in politeness.
A soft spoken rejection,
a potential strangled in the cradle
by a flaw too small to matter,
but too loud to ignore.

Almost - 
like a door that looked open
but was never meant for me.

I was always an almost.
A contradiction in motion.
A misfit puzzle piece -
not wrong, just not quite right.
A nor this,
a nor that.

Almost smart.
Almost outgoing.
Almost shy.
Almost considerate.
Almost pretty.
Almost white.

Almost.
Just almost.
Always one inch from being enough.

But above all
I was almost human.
But not quite

Not because I didn't try.
Not because I didn't contort myself into their definitions
until my soul grew bruises.
I bled effort. I exhaled imitation.
I studied their smiles like scripture,
memorized the tilt of their laughter,
the ritual of eye contact,
the smiles that mean nothing but keep you safe.

I practiced humanity like it was a second language
no one thought to teach me.
And still, I never became fluent.

Because my essence - 
whatever that is -
couldn’t grasp it.

What is it anyway ?
Humanity.
Is it skin ?
Bones ?
A shared delusion ?
A checklist ?
A club with unwritten rules
you’re expected to know without being told ?

Is being born one not enough ?
Must I earn it ?
Must I morph myself into a shape that fits into their fragile definition ?
Am I just a creature who never fully formed ?
An echo of what might’ve been,
if the mold hadn’t cracked before it set ?

I was a human, yes.
But that was never enough to be one.
Not in their eyes.
Not in mine.

So I started wondering -
Do you become human ?
Like a rite of passage ?
A slow evolution into acceptability ?
And if so…
Who holds the power to declare you’re arrived ?
Is there a test ?
A certification ?
A label they stamp on your forehead
once you’ve softened enough to stop threatening their mirrors ?
I don’t know.
But I tried.
I tried.
God, I tried.
But no manual fell from the sky.
No directives arrived from the womb.
And so I studied.

I became the observer.
The scientist in the corner.
The being with the clipboard and a thousand questions.
But somewhere along the way,
I realizedI wasn't the one doing the watching.

I was the experiment.
The one in the glass box,
the anomaly under their microscope
twitching under their gaze.
An oddity. A malfunction.
A curiosity too complex to classify.

I was the glitch in their algorithm.
The thing they couldn’t decode
so they discarded.

So no -
I didn't reach humanhood.
And maybe,
with every year that passes,
I care less about reaching it.

Because here’s the truth:
Society does not define humanity by biology.
It defines it by belonging.
By familiarity.
By palatability.

And me ?
I was never digestible.
Too strange.
Too sharp.
Too loud in silence and silent in noise.
Too other.

So they told me without words
that I’m not quite one of them.
Not yet.
Maybe never.

And now,
I’m done asking.

Because I know what I am.
I am not your almost.
Not your nor.
Not your maybe.
Not a project to fix
or a prototype to pity.

I am not the potential of something better.
I am the result of everything you didn't see.

I am a complexity you won’t box.
I am a chaos you won’t calm.
I am the refusal to be simplified.

I do not need to be perceived
if perception means being misnamed.
If all you see is what I am not,
then don’t look at me at all.
I’d rather go unassessed.

I am not an almost.
I am not broken.
I am not waiting for permission to become.

I am.

Even if it terrifies you.
Even if it doesn’t fit your words.
Even if it doesn’t wear the name “human”
the way you expect.

I am.

And that,
right there,
is enough.

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A little bit about the author :

Name : Moona

Pronouns : she/they

Age : 22

Location : France

My hobbies are writing, acting and modeling. Some of my special interests are dinosaurs, musicals and true crime.  

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