I've always had my bubble. It's just there, my shell, enclosing me from head to toe in a transparent, protective screen.
Yes, it protects me.
Sometimes people don't see my bubble at first. They reach in, and meet with unexpected resistance as the walls cave in towards me and I push back from the inside. They are surprised. They try again, some of them, stubbornly digging into its delicate sheet, vainly insisting on bursting through. But my bubble is like spider's silk supple, and unyielding as steel.
My friends don't seem to have bubbles. Well, they might, but theirs are more like the bubbles that children blow with washing up liquid and a wire loop. The kinds of bubbles that, drifting in the cold air, are so thin and fragile that they almost seem to have grown gaping holes in the side; the bubbles that you can just walk through and never even know they were there. So I sit here,