Admiration wears a small smile. But envy grits its teeth behind the same face. One claps with clean hands— the other, with bandaged fists.
It starts with awe. You see someone move like you wish you could— speak like you, but louder. Shine like you, but brighter. And you think: Yes. I want that.
But slowly, your gaze hardens. You stop saying “I want that,” and start whispering, Why not me?
And so admiration begins to decay. The longer you stare, the more the line blurs. Admiration wants to learn. Envy wants to replace.
You don’t hate them. You hate the mirror they hold. You hate that they got there first— that they look like a version of you with everything you’re still trying to earn. A version of you in a perfect world.
You tell yourself it’s inspiration, but it feels heavier now. Their wins sting. Their art irritates. You still admire them— but it burns now.
It’s a fine line. Admiration offers a hand. Envy sharpens its nails. And both wear your face when they turn away.