The Sticker

They left the cup on the table again. It's a cup. It takes two seconds to carry it to the sink. You carry it. And you put a small sticker on them.

It says: careless. It's not an insult. It's just an observation. You've seen the cup four times this week. At some point, a cup stops being a cup.

The next one says: selfish. Then: never listens. Then: doesn't care. Each sticker covers a little more of them. And each one makes the next easier to place, because now you know what you're looking at.

It's very efficient. You don't have to ask anymore why they did something. You already have the answer, printed and ready. You're arguing with a person you assembled yourself.

And they've started doing it too. There are stickers on your back you've never read. Neither of you is cruel. A label is a shortcut for a tired mind. But you can talk about a cup. You can't talk about what someone is.

So peel one off. Slowly. And look at what's actually under it.

A cup. A late arrival. A forgotten call. Things a person did. Not what a person is. And what you thought it meant, that they don't love you, that you don't matter, was a guess. Sometimes a pattern is real, and then you name the pattern. It's still something they do. That leaves a door open.

You can't peel the ones they put on you. Only the ones you placed. Start there, and ask the question the sticker replaced. Which sticker did you put on someone this week?