During my middle school years, I developed a peculiar habit that I maintained each new school year. It seemed impractical to hold onto friendships with classmates from the previous year if we wouldn't be in the same grade again.
My approach was to search for the quietest person in class, preferably someone seated near me, and cling to them. I would ask their name and inquire about their interests. Candidly speaking, I didn't particularly like them or people in general. My primary concern was avoiding the label of a lonely child who ate lunch alone.
Since a young age, I had a keen sense of what was expected of me and what wasn't. However, my parents were not fully present during my childhood, as they had their own unresolved issues to contend with. Being the middle child, I struggled to understand the deep bond shared between my two sisters, which often led to teasing.
As a result, I didn't engage much with other children my age. Instead, I sought solace in films and TV shows, emulating their expressions and imitating certain behaviors. In a way, television became a surrogate parent, imparting lessons on how relationships were meant to function.
Loneliness became an ever-present companion throughout my childhood. I harbored a profound fear of teachers, being called upon to answer questions, authority figures, the spotlight, raised voices, and even prolonged gazes directed towards me.
Hence, I consistently sought out the quietest child as my preferred company, as it provided a sense of safety (although this wasn't always the case). Together, we would share the silence while sharing a bench and enjoying our lunches.
Eventually, these temporary companions would forge connections with others, and I would seamlessly join them. They would engage in conversation and play, while I quietly consumed my meal and absorbed the surrounding environment.
Strangely enough, I look back on those moments with amusement. I resembled a ghostly figure, quietly following along as they conversed, seldom asking questions or participating actively. My role was that of an observer, finding solace in the security of silence—a protective cocoon that enveloped me during those formative years.
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