Pigeon Hole*

On that fine morning. I'm alone.

I'm sitting near that place where justice ends all the grievances people used to feel; from where few steps could lead you to the head of our college and adjacent to that is the department where she belongs.

Bluebooks with vivid red marks spread all over the corner. Low pressure. Grades roll over tiny dimensioned squares, as if the atmosphere itself is sending good, bad, shaky signals. Unstable.

I was waiting for a common friend, while she's just on her way there.

She's at first unusual to me. She's too quiet. I thought she was uncomfortable dealing with me. Silence reigns supreme -- maybe this is the only thing I hate about her. Vacuum of silence.

There's no definite time every moment she arrives. But I'm surprised to see her whenever I'm with Nobody.

She is at that place, usually she is not there; not that moment. If my memory serves me right, she's getting the result of her latest exam. And from there, I get to see definite emotions the moment she bars her face. It or they may occur in different states. The emotion of -- disappointment, excitement, happiness, satisfaction. Or surprised, overwhelmed. Everything. Seeing her far up and down she can go, riding an invisible cloud of difficulty wheeled by her chosen course and paved by her ultimate dreams.

I'm lucky she's my friend, the first I have ever met in our university. I don't know but all the things I thought she was, were all erased by her unique ways.

Since then, I get to follow the habit of trying to catch her again in that particular place, as I see her stretched arms holding her lab kit.

I don't know but whenever she's there, the red marks I mentioned were manifesting an alienating sound of red, simply the way reds should be, the way I remember reds to be.

No regrets for the friendship. I hope to see you in white soon.

Regine.