Spectator. 

She sat in silence, occasionally playing around with her pen, because the adults wouldn’t let her speak nor let her write.

Occasionally she wrote something down on her laptop, because hey, they allowed her to type.

She watched them argue and boast about their successes. She watched others’ faces when it wasn’t their turn to speak.

Hey, they had the same expressions that I have, she thought.

She watched them cringe at some words spoken by the Orator.

Hey, it wasn’t so bad, she thought.

She watched the Orator’s brows move up and down with every note he hit in his speech.

Hey, that wasn’t so glorious, she thought.

When they weren’t looking, she’d type something. When they were, she’d scribble and doodle on her jeans. When it was all over, she had to be the last to stand.

Hey, I don’t mind staying quiet, she thought.

Then they asked her for her opinion.

She had no opinion, she replied.

But they demanded for one.

Trembling, she stood up and shook her head once more.

I don’t know what to comment on, she would like to say.

But their faces weren’t taking a ‘no’ for an answer. She knew all too well, having observed them for a long time now.

“I think it was a good idea. I think you are right,” she uttered.

Everyone was pleased. The adults left, while continuing on the topics of adulthood and all their glories.

She left too, because she had to live. She has always thought that living and surviving were 2 different words, but within one finite reality, both almost meant the same.

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