If overthinking were a sport,
I would have a jersey.
My number would be 24
because that is how many hours a day
my brain refuses to clock out.
Opening ceremony
is me opening a text
that says
”k.”
The crowd gasps.
Was it an aggressive “k.”?
Was it an exhausted “k.”?
Was it an I’m three seconds away from blocking you “k.”?
Why is it lowercase?
Why is it alone?
Where is the O, A, and Y?
Why is there period after it?
Replay the footage.
Yesterday they said “okayyy.”
With three Ys.
That is enthusiasm.
Today we have one dry consonant.
Suspicious behavior.
Judges hold up signs.
9.8 for paranoia.
Ten for commitment.
Next event
Response Time Triathlon.
They saw my message.
Seen.
SEEN.
It has been six minutes.
That is 42 years in overthinking time.
They are online.
They liked a post.
They breathed.
But no reply.
Are they drafting a breakup speech?
Are they composing a novel?
Are they pretending they did not see it
while actively seeing it?
I refresh the chat
like it owes me money.
Next event
Tone Gymnastics.
They say “I’m fine.”
The flip.
The twist.
The emotional landing.
Fine how?
Fine like fine?
Fine like I will remember this forever?
Did their voice dip?
Was that a sigh?
Was that a microsecond pause
that indicates lifelong resentment?
Slow motion replay.
Enhance.
Enhance again.
The commentators are losing it.
Final event
Laugh Decathlon.
They reply “haha.”
Not HAHA.
Not lol.
Not 💀.
Just haha.
Is it polite?
Is it forced?
Is it a farewell laugh before emotional exile?
I build seventeen alternate timelines
in which I never sent the original message.
If overthinking were a sport,
I would not train.
I would dominate.
There would be shirts that say
World Champion of Things That Were Probably Fine.
Instead
it is 1:37 a.m.
and the only trophy I have
is a screenshot
I zoomed into
for absolutely no reason.
