On the way back to the dorm, I couldn’t decide whether to have my hands in or out of my pockets. If I kept them in, I could slouch a bit, and my posture wouldn’t mar my image… so that meant that if I kept them out, even though that would give me a little more freedom in stride, I would have to stand up straight. I kept one in and one out. I figured that would let me slouch a little, and I’d have the other hand to swing as I walked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him approach, but I was too engrossed in the play with my hands to notice; a black man carrying a bundle of fliers was walking towards me, hands outstretched, saying something. As always, I panicked: should I take out the hand in my pocket, my shaking hand, to shake his hand? Should I shake his hand with the other hand that’s not in the pocket? Should I even say anything? I don’t even know him. The whole time, I was walking, and before I knew it, I had brushed past him. Just as I had noticed this, I heard the man yelling out for everyone to hear, “Yes, this is America!” pointing at me, the one who ignored the black man, to notify everyone that I was racist.

At that instant, as if out of nowhere the girl from down the hall appeared in front of me. I was dumbfounded, unable to speak. When she said hello, I was unable to do anything but stare until she left. Trying to remember her name fast enough to catch her before she walked away, the only thing that would enter my mind was a thought about how stupid I am. I succumbed to this thought and kept walking again. It would be exactly 2 minutes before the name would come back to me; too little, too late. Now that I think about it, I don’t care that she is probably right now telling people how socially inept I am; at least that would keep people away from me. I really don’t know why I stopped staring at the ground while walking to and from class and entered the realm of the heads-lifted passersby.

Walking up the hill to my building, I found some crunchy leaves, and stomped them flat. Since the days of walking to the bus stop in elementary school, I could never forgive the brown, curled leaves that broke when stepped on. I could never leave them in one piece whenever encountered. The sound made me happy that split second, hearing the cell walls crumble, the substance that held together this invention of nature nullified by my rubber soles. I looked across the street to the large tree, full of golden leaves, and the bounty under the tree, but thought better and ran inside to my room.

I sat down at the desk and contemplated the task at hand. Papers due in a few weeks, a few pages unread for tomorrow class; this could wait an hour. I thought of her, and a brief loss of hope flashed in my head. I brushed it aside hesitantly, much to my own dismay. I knew that if I could only realize I had no chance, I could save myself heartache, but I never listen to myself. As I lay back in my head, I wrote, rewrote, rewrote, and rewrote the first sentence of the letter in my head. How should I address her? I can’t scare her away in the first line. But I want to capture the essence of what I want to say from beginning to end.

After 40 minutes, I sat up and turned on the radio: crap, like usual. The DJ was babbling about the latest company to give him money to praise them, and it burned to know I wouldn’t have to walk far down my hall to find people who listen to this crap. People sometimes wonder why I don’t like people. Hoping to hear something worthwhile, I kept the radio on, and looked through the fridge, grabbing a soda that had an ad playing on the radio at the same time.

How many before, and how many after me would there be? To write to her, to drink this brand of soda? I walked to the sink, and disposed of half the can into the dark hole of the sink. The brown bubbles appeared on the porcelain, eating away at the whiteness with its caffeine. I drank the rest and grabbed another drink. I filled my mouth with a quick swig of bubbly black acid and put it aside.

The phone rang unexpectedly. I ran to it and pulled the plastic receiver to my face. The shiny black felt smooth against the face I hadn’t shaved since the day before. I excitedly started a conversation with the person on the other side, until I realized it was a wrong number. After hanging up on them rather suddenly, I sat down at the desk to get to work.

I love listening to the clicking of keyboards. There’s a certain rhythm that’s only there when you don’t know exactly what you want to type. Its slow and unsteady, and in itself, a bit settling. The uneasiness puts me in a trance, and I keep writing, almost unaware as to what keys I am actually hitting.

After a lengthy bit of writing, I looked up at the screen, to have a look at what I had typed. I wasn’t surprised to find a rather pathetic account of my feelings, worded in such a way as to evoke pity. Unable to move, my eyes soaked in each word, until finally I worked up enough strength to start fresh, with a new page.

20 minutes later, I walked out the door again, into the world full of people. The screen still empty, I desired to find a way to fight my way out of this box. I drifted toward the tree across the street, and sat, deep in thought. After a while, 2 young men walked down the path next to the tree. One with short black hair, the other with longish brown. The brown haired one carried his backpack in his hand; the other held his hands in his pockets. Both looked each other in the eyes intently while they spoke. For a second I thought back to the last time I looked into a person’s eyes. I shivered faintly.

As they passed, I felt a coldness. Not from them, but not from me, either. It came from their proximity to me. I longed to look into anybody’s eyes again. I wondered what it would feel like to look into the eyes of the boy with black eyes. The thought almost made me smile. This feeling didn’t last long before the coldness would freeze it.

I still sit here, afraid. Of people, especially her. The coldness I can deal with, at least for now. As I look up at the falling, graying leaves, I am afraid of the sound I’ll make when crushed. More people are coming down the walkway now; listening intently, you’ll hear it soon.