They kept talking. About their lives, about their loves, about life and their school being the better one than all the rest. They kept talking, perhaps for not having seen each other for three years, yes, how are you, I am fine, thank you; or maybe to show how much fat one’s lost or gained, how much prettier, taller, shorter, less nerdy-looking, or more handsome one thinks he or she has become; or perhaps because they wanted to prove their real worth and take off the labels they have been forced to wear for four naïve years of their lives.
Theirs, theirs, theirs.
My this, my that, my, my, mine.
I stood to watch them, their mouths moving at 80 kph, racing to tell the most tales. I watched their heads bloating to unimaginable sizes. A spectator to this whole gathering, I stood by, watching their lives unfold before me like TVs on a shopping window tuned in to different channels. Eventually, I became one of the cast of the show, and I talked my share of life. I smiled at them, what’s up with you? Oh nothing, except that I’m into drums and friends and fame and bands and boys and girls and high grades and I’ve changed a lot and nursing and my school’s better than yours…
Theirs, theirs, theirs.
My this, my that, my, my, mine.
At the end of the day, is anybody even certain they know how the others’ lives have been turning these three years?
