THE PROOF OF OWNDERSHIP

Belonging was always a contract with fine print.

She was always almost one of them.

Close enough to pass. Close enough to read the room, pick up the customs, ripen her vowels until they stopped catching in her throat. But never close enough to be claimed.

They called a foreigner. Said kindly. Said casually. Said like it wasnt meant to cut.

She learned the rules. Memorized the names of the trees and the history. She stitched the language into the seams of her sentences. Tried not to flinch when corrected.

When they asked where she was from, she answered carefully. Practiced. Kept it light. Kept it easy.

There were papers. Numbers, records, documents that promised the right to belong. But they only proved what could not be felt. No certificate could fold her into the lineage. No stamp could rewrite her accent.

She carried it anyway—the proof. Quietly. Tucked in her pocket, hidden like a love letter.

And still, the question came. Again and again, in a dozen variations: Where do you belong?

It wasn’t a cruelty, exactly. More like the weight of a door that wouldn’t quite close.

She learned to stand there. On the threshold. One foot in. One foot out. Learning to live with the ache of almost.

Because sometimes belonging isn’t granted.

Sometimes, you just take it.