T h e r e it g o e s

She sits at their cluster of desks, eyes staring at the brown lines of her presumably fake wooden desktop, finger tracing endless swirls into the desk that followed no stencil, in a way akin to drawing swirls in sand. Her crystal eyes were pensive, though no one looked into them. Her table-mates were politely otherwise occupied.

One, doodling the name of the man in her life and adding excessive detail to suppress the feeling of missing him, of longing for him, of not being able to be with him. The patterns seem bright yet colorless, and the emotion poured into them is anything but bright; it softly screams of anguish, yet an outsider would be unable to tell. Each additional line, each increase in detail, shows the increasing pain in her heart, alone, alone.

Two, sitting idly at her desk, texting mysteriously on her phone (to an unknown someone) and spending the inbetween time writing random things on paper and cracking jokes, hiding the inner her that longs to be perfect, longs to be loved, longs to be accepted. Yet you'd never see it in her nonchalant smile, her carelessly sarcastic remarks about life plopped into the air.

Three, mashing his fingers into the buttons of the green SP that seems to universally fit perfectly inbetween everyone's palms, no matter who holds it, playing a game that matches his game system--Pokémon LeafGreen. His mind is otherwise occupied, but he's recently been broken up with by his girlfriend of over a year, and right before prom, too. He doesn't seem to be suffering too badly, and is rolling with the punches as he does in most situations witnessed in, and already has a new girlfriend, a new date, though one can't help but wonder of the things he is hiding, concealing from the table community. Is he suffering? Is he upset? Is his activity also his own way of coping with the hardships of life?

Four, her, our original contender, is the only one without headphones in. She's the only one not particularly doing anything at the moment, though a blank sheet of paper and pen are in front of her and a book is waiting in her bag. She's the only one without relationship problems. The only one who hasn't been kissed. The only one dateless to the prom. The only one who doesn't talk about her problems during the discussions of this secluded table community.

Yet that, the latter abnormality to the group, was about to change.

When she talks, she knows they listen. This, she is afraid of. Yet, she's more afraid of being misunderstood.

"This week is Sexual Assault Awareness Week," she mumbles, eyes steadily watching her fingers trace her imaginary swirls in nonexistent sand.

They nod, not following, not getting it.

She can't bring herself to say anything more.

The headphones blast.