The Misfit’s Fit

An Allegory for the Overwhelmed

I don’t usually write fiction here. But sometimes a story speaks clearer than an explanation, and sometimes parable reaches deeper than prose.

This is one of those times.

If you’ve ever felt like a misfit in a world too loud, too sharp, too heavy—if you have ever gasped for air in a world that didn’t seem to notice—this is for you.

A short story. An allegory. A breath of grace.

* * *

She wasn’t sure when the gasping began.

Maybe it had always been there, tucked behind her ribs, flaring only when the sky thickened and the light got too sharp. But she noticed it more now—every step felt heavier. Every sound scraped. Every word she spoke left a bitter metallic aftertaste like oxygen tainted with something foreign.

And what made it worse—what made it unbearable—was that no one else seemed to notice.

They walked with ease, these other people. Smiling. Mingling. Laughing in clusters under the strange sun like nothing was wrong. Like the gravity wasn’t shifting daily. Like the air wasn’t laced with invisible toxins that stung the eyes and seared the skin.

She tried to blend in, of course. Pulled her sleeves down over the burns. Nodded at the right moments. Faked laughter even when her lungs burned and her vision blurred. But eventually, the envy began to rise.

How do they do it? she wondered.

How do they move through this world like it fits them?

What’s wrong with me?

She tried everything. Regimens. Rituals. Information. She tried not to feel so much. Not to flinch when the winds picked up. Not to cry when someone’s words cut deep or when the screens flickered images too sharp for her spirit. But her body kept reacting. Her soul kept flinching.

And then—on a morning when the clouds hung low like bruises and the air shimmered with unseen pressure—she found it.

A small crate, nestled beside a crooked post. No lock. No sound. Just a folded suit, pressed like a gift, and a note.

S.O.F. – To protect you from this hostile planet.

Put it on.

She looked around. Surely this was for someone else. Someone weaker. Or more out of place.

But something in her—the part that still whispered hope between gasps—believed.

So she slipped one leg in. Then the other. Pulled the material over her scorched skin, feeling it settle like second breath. It was soft but unyielding, fluid but firm. And the moment the last clasp clicked into place—

Everything changed.

The air cleared.

The sting stopped.

The sounds dimmed, softened, harmonized.

The same world, yes. But now, she could breathe.

Where once every sense had been a warzone, now they became a symphony—quiet, calibrated, manageable. The words of others no longer pierced. The images no longer haunted. She could walk without bracing for impact. She could be without unraveling.

The planet was still hostile.

But she no longer was.

She took her first deep breath—not with fear, but with peace.

And as the air moved freely through her lungs, she finally understood:

She was never meant to survive this place without help.

She was meant to be covered.

Protected.

Equipped.

And now… she was.

She didn’t build the suit.

She received it. And now, she walks not in her strength—but clothed in His.