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Observing

She popped open the case to her electronic cigarette and took a drag from it, her eyes still glued to the screen. I watched the vapor leave her lips and vaguely wondered why she didn’t opt for regular cigarettes. She said it was because the lack of tobacco, the cancer-causing part of a cigarette, but then that made me question her. If she had this so called disease called depression, then wouldn’t she want the cancer?

“I have too many things I need to do that I need my lungs for right now,” she told me, her ever blue eyes still glued to that screen. She placed the small machine down and her fingers typed. They typed for a while and I just watched. She was my favorite person to watch because though she was the most hidden, she was also so blatantly obvious. It surprised me how many people over looked someone like her.

In my little notebook I had with me to jot down any ideas, I often wrote words that described what I saw, or what I felt. I stuck around her often because I liked the words she gave me.

‘Busy.’

‘Tired.’

‘Lost.’

And I know maybe I shouldn’t have piggybacked off her for my own amusement, but she didn’t care whether I was there or not.

One drag after the other. I liked the way she let the vapor just leave, and didn’t blow it out. I wondered if there were more people like her, and I found myself hoping there wasn’t. She was different, for sure, and I didn’t want everyone to come close to who she was. I wanted her to be my secret thing. My special thing.

As I watched her fingers type endlessly on the keyboard in front of her, I thought maybe I was selfish. Maybe I shouldn’t have kept her to myself and maybe I should have tried to help her or something. She was damaged, that was clear. She was:

‘Off.’

‘Odd.’

‘Chipped.’

But I think I liked that about her. And, yes, I probably shouldn’t have idolized someone like that. But in a world so fake and full of misconceptions, she was that breath of acid in a polished world.

I liked that she was:

‘Dangerous.’

‘Angry.’

‘Hopeless.’

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