The pencil drops from my hand, and my digits tiptoe across the wooden table covered in the stray marks of the crayons and markers of four hundred careless children. My eyes catch sight of the beige cube, and i grab for it, quickly because I can not hide the fact that there is a bit of paranoia creeping from the back of my mind. With my tool in hand, I furiously grind it against my paper, desperately determined to eliminate the jagged edge of the hand I had just drawn, modeled after my own. I have insisted that I can not do it and have had that concern met with a falsely caring push. I don't mind though, I'm used to it.

A hole burns through my paper, and I drop the eraser and kick the leg of the wooden structure as hard as I can in frustration. I sigh deeply, annoyed at both myself and the closeness of the person next to me. I want space now, because I am ready to murder someone. I glance back to the utensil I'd dropped, and silently fantasize about picking it up again and pressing it into the left eye of the girl sitting across from me. I've told her four times already that she can not sing and her off-key howling is starting to really get to me.

I don't pick up the pencil however because I can not ruin my perfect record. No, gouging a students eye out would not look well when I attempt to enter Harvard. But what if it were not her eye but my own ear? Honestly, the rap music blaring from the radio is equally as discomforting and I don't know whether or not I should ignore it or smash it to pieces. But I won't, and the first option is truly my only one, and with my hands before me to protect myself, I allow my head to fall forward.

I stay in this tired position for about twenty seconds until I get hot and can't breath in which case I pick it up and look to my left.

And there you are, sitting all alone by yourself. You have a headphone in your ear and you seem content. But you are still alone. And I could have sworn that I'd seen you shaking a bit earlier, but maybe it was just my imagination. And maybe that slight trace of intensity in your eye when class had begun and your friend had not arrived was just a figment, and maybe the death grip you had on your pen was just me as well. Then again, those things may have been real. And even though we hate each other there is still the sympathetic part of me that remembers how I felt when I was in the same position because you had done the same thing to me only two months ago. Truly, I couldn't care less about you and your feelings.

You did this to yourself. All those years of bitching and complaining finally caught up to you. You got your wish. Now you are the spitting image of the fantasy you would never admit to dreaming up. You are the girl with no friends in dark clothing, cool and dangerous. Just as glamorous as you thought it would be, hm?

Maybe its time to let go of that cool dreamgirl you thought up back in fifth grade. Maybe its time to stop pretending not to care. Maybe its time to just face the music and realize that the reason nobody wants to have anything to do with you anymore is your own doing.

And then there's that tiny (and i mean tiny) bit of my mind that thinks, maybe the lonely solemn girl I'm looking at with the speakers at full blast in her ears (which must be shot, because that's all part of the image) really is a bit real. Maybe there is a tad bit of truth within the lie. Maybe there is something there.

Maybe I"m sorry.