The thought lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind. If I die, would it feel like fixing something broken? Like erasing a mistake?
"Hey" I want to ignore her. Maybe if I stay quiet, she'll give up.
"Hey, Faven!" Ughhhh. Guess not.
"What?" The word escapes my throat, dry and brittle. I sound foreign to myself. When was the last time I drank water?
"No—wait. Sorry. I mean. Yes?"
A weak correction. Politeness was never my strong suit, but I had hoped silence would do the job. 'She's persistent.'
"Finally, you're paying attention. Do you want to go to lunch with me?"
The question hangs in the air, but my answer is already decided. No.
"Gosh, why were you late today? If you hadn't come, I would have spent the daydreaming."
More like questioning but dreaming works too. I don't want to go with her.
"You know how the English teacher's voice lulls me to sleep, and I just couldn't resist."
"Oh, so you didn't hear that she set another test! She thinks the last one wasn't hard enough."
Strange—how do I remember that, when I was barely awake?
"I just woke up, though."
"Hahaha. Did you hand in your science homework yet? Remember, he will penalize anyone who hands it in late."
Of course. He never misses a chance to remind us of pain. You'd think a skeleton couldn't hit hard enough to break bones—but this one not only hits the gym, he swings a thin bamboo like a whip.
"Yup, I did it first thing today."
"Did you see Esther? She was wearing layers of underwear. That must mean the social studies teacher is going to review our exams. Pain will be served after lunch, haha."
If you thought the skeleton was a master of pain, oh—you are so wrong. The social studies instructor has taught about past wars, but his figure says there will be war in the present.
He swings anything from half-meter rulers to full sticks, but his weapon hardly matters—the aftermath is the same: his victims' screams echo through the hallways, a chilling reminder of a horror scene.
Now that's a class you don't want to miss—if you're not one of the victims.
"Girl, her bottoms doubled in size. Who wouldn't notice? hahah"
Sigh. Why do I answer so cheerfully, though I feel no joy?
Why don't I just follow my thoughts? All I had to say was no.
Why do I ramble on—like someone reading from a script they don't remember writing?
It's as if I'm wearing a mask… A facade.
A character in a play I didn't audition for.
Why does it feel like my body is moving on its own?
There exist two identities within the soul: the conscious mind and the unconscious self. Both govern the body's actions, yet one holds the ability to evolve—to strengthen over time.
My conscious awareness is often absent. Strange, considering it is meant to be awake.
This happens when thoughts wander—when one loses themselves in fiction or deep contemplation. The roles invert, shifting power between the two identities. The conscious mind drifts, while the unconscious self-anchors reality.
But how do you know which one you are using?
Thinking before action is conscious.
Regret after response is unconscious.
Which of the two is stronger? The answer lies in dependence. The mind adapts to whatever it leans on the most. For me, it feels like both govern my existence, neither fully dominant, always shifting.
Take yesterday—Thursday afternoon. My friend Fay confided in me about her illness, how it was affecting her family. My conscious mind decided listening was best. A soft joke afterward—lighten her heart a little, so my advice wouldn't cloud her judgment.
But what did I do? Nothing.
She spoke, and I dreaded the length of her words. But somehow, my silence worked in my favour. It made me realize I could be a therapist. My silence is so good it heals.
That thought alone should tell you how bad of a friend I am.
That is wrong, isn't it? A friend should offer warmth. A friend should care.
But—I have been worse.
You don't earn my friendship instantly. There's a trial period. One year. Once you pass, I am yours—a friend who listens, helps, and tells the kind of stories that keep you grounded. I will be there for you. I will accept you.
Because no one can be more devilish than me.
But friendship changes. The more friends you gain, the more my enthusiasm fades. You may wonder why.
Simple. New is always preferable to old.
We may drift apart as the years pass, separated by different classes, different lives. But don't worry—I'm not petty. I'll let you go, no words needed. When you become an uncertainty, I won't need your presence in my memories anymore.
I will erase you.
Not suddenly—gradually, like clearing space on an outdated machine.
Bit by bit, until you're nothing but a faded imprint in my catalogue of names.
And if I see you again?
I will search your face for something familiar. Match it to a name. But I won't say it—not yet. I'll wait for someone else to call you first. And if they don't?
I'll ask for it when you leave.
The next time we meet, I won't remember who you were—only the version of you I have pieced together from faded memories.
I wish time would move forward—to an age where understanding emotions required no thought.Where a single device could tell me how I feel.
Why does the heart waver?
Feelings are rarely singular, never absolute. They shift and evolve, blending contradiction into certainty. Love and indifference. Empathy and detachment. Concern and emptiness.
Fay, my five-year friend. I care for her—I know that much. But this awareness is coupled with a void, a depth without origin.
Even in joy, emptiness lingers.
So don't fear hurting me—because in the end, these emotions will dissolve into nothingness.
I feel empty. And strangely, that seems natural.
I exist between contradictions. I can be an introvert or extrovert, depending on the situation.
My friends know that once I start talking, only a dry throat will stop me.
To teachers and strangers, I vanish into the background, silent like a forgotten brushstroke on a canvas.
Teachers do a double take when they catch me chatting—like they've stumbled upon a hidden version of me, one that doesn't fit the silent observer they assumed I was.
The school day follows its rhythm. I pack my books into my bag, ready for lunch. My friend—whose name sometimes fades in the chaos of my thoughts—follows me into the bustling hallway, where voices rise and footsteps echo against the lockers.
More friends merge into our path, their chatter weaving into our own. We shift effortlessly from gossip to exam stress, each topic as fleeting as the weather.
Yet, even as we talk, my mind drifts elsewhere. When I am excluded, I welcome solitude. But when included—I shift. Adapting, blending, and melding myself into the shape the moment demands. Engaged. Talkative. Present.
The rest of the day passes in a blur—a whirlwind of classes, assignments, conversations that mean everything and nothing.
The students dust the board, erasing lessons and memories alike, another day lost to time.
I join the throng of students heading for the bus, the setting sun casting long shadows on the ground. The sights changing through the bus window felt empty, mirroring the sigh within me. The familiar landscape rolls by, yet it feels distant, detached, like a movie playing out on a screen.
As I step into the sanctuary of my home, I shed the mask I've been wearing all day. The walls of my room bear silent witness to the transformation. Here, I am not the cheerful, outgoing girl my friends know. Nor am I the quiet, reserved girl my teachers see. Here, I am Faven - the unstable sloth, oscillating between extremes, forever seeking balance. Here, I am only myself—whatever that means.