the uniform is the same for everyone. gray, stiff, a collar too tight against the throat, pants that never quite fit right. polyester breathing like plastic skin. a joke of fabric. a bad dream someone else designed. but if you fold the cuffs just so, if you let the sleeves hang loose like dead weight, if you wear the tie wrong—too long, too short, knotted like a noose or not at all—then maybe it becomes something else. maybe it becomes yours.

some days, i button everything up, straighten the tie, tuck in the shirt. pretend the neatness will hold me together. it never does. it just makes it easier for people to look at me without really seeing.

other days, i let the whole thing fall apart. untucked, collar open, sleeves rolled up like i’m ready to fight something, though i don’t know what. maybe the wind. maybe myself.

i keep the shoes scuffed. dirt pressed into the leather like a fingerprint. proof that i exist. that i walk through this world and it does not walk through me.

the jacket is stolen. or borrowed. or maybe just lost, but i found it first. it’s too big, the sleeves swallowing my hands. but it’s good for disappearing. when i wear it, i am a shadow with buttons. a ghost with a schedule to keep.

someone once told me i wear my uniform like i don’t care. but that’s not true. i care too much. i care so much i have to ruin it a little, break it in like a bad habit. if i wore it the way they wanted, i think i’d vanish completely.

and some days, that doesn’t sound so bad.