Echo

             She was pure and innocent; I could tell by her steps.  She would float into History class just in time to sit down as the bell rang. She would let herself fall into her chair; sometimes causing her light brown hair to get caught in the air above, and fall from behind her ears. She would slide her fingertips along her cheekbones then behind her ears, returning the mousy strands to where they belonged. She would lean back in her chair, and listen to her music. She would close her eyes, avoiding the imperative small talk and gossip that I mindlessly participated in. I would discuss last night’s episode of American Horror Story, Leah and Matt’s insignificant relationship, and sometimes even the weather, while she left her physical body behind and relished in her mind’s wonders. Her silent presence emanated maturity. It was as if she had enough going on in her head that she didn’t need to contribute to our empty conversations. I always envied that. She didn’t need the social acceptance that I craved. She was very much her own person – I was not. I began to unconsciously mimic her solitary behavior. I would walk into class with earbuds in, escaping the obligatory chitchat as she did. I admired her sequestered life; I wanted to be as content with my life as she seemed to be with her own.  

            Her happiness wasn’t very loud – instead it was quiet and humble. Her small brown eyes didn’t invoke any emotion, her lips were thin and her skin was pale –she was very average looking. She wore jeans that loosely fit her thin frame and simple blouses that yawned with her movements. She wore a lot of blue; I assumed it was her favourite colour. Blue suited her; being the colour of the sky and the sea, it has a calming effect. She was always calm and tranquil. She did her best to keep attention away from herself. She didn’t stand out. I’m not sure if even the teacher had taken time to learn her name.

            On a hopelessly slow Wednesday I walked into History class late. Her seat was empty.  For the entire class, the vacancy of her desk bothered me. I created excuses for her absence, to satisfy my own worries. After a couple of days, “an appointment” was no longer a suitable explanation. She must be sick, I thought. It was February and my friend Emma had the flu, it made sense for her to have caught it as well. As weeks passed I realized this wasn’t a temporary absence; it wasn’t an appointment, an illness, or vacation. I found myself thinking of her new life more than the history lesson. I would trace the freckles on my arms and wonder why she left us without spilling her secret. I couldn’t be the only one who noticed her buoyant contentment. I wanted to know how she achieved it, did she meditate? Did she volunteer at Salvation Army? I didn't care about the old wars and the old men with white powdered wigs and extravagant mustaches. I cared about a girl I had never talked to, and how she could be so happy.

            A month had passed.

            “Where’s Marisol?” I asked my friend.

            “Who’s Marisol?”

            It then occurred to me: all that I am is what others perceive of me. I saw Marisol as an intelligent, independent, inspiring individual. She may have been none of those things, but my perception of her led me to believe so. I had never had a real conversation with her, meaning the Marisol I knew was based purely on observation –Marisol was a bird and I was an ornithologist, watching and justifying her behavior from afar. I wondered if birds ever disappeared as Marisol had; without warning, no signs of disarray or danger – just an abrupt disappearance. They just chose to leave because they could.

                        All that was left of Marisol was her empty desk, and the semblance she left in me. Her behaviour dawdled within my own. She was an inkling, silently shifting through my soul, reminding me that solitude is safer, and small talk is stupid. Marisol’s sudden departure was a wake-up call for me. I realised the way you interact with others is all that you are. The way you carry yourself through the halls can define you. Marisol’s graceful strides, impeccable timing, and ethereal existence allowed me to define her as perfect. My friends however, left her as Untitled. Her existence was perhaps a little too ethereal for them. They did not see the beauty of her tenuous presence.

            All that was left of Marisol were my memories of her perfection, other’s memories of her unimportance, and the lingering impression she left in me.

            All that was left of Marisol was her echo.