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Teresa sits on the edge of the table. Everyday. She sits, alone, on the edge of the table while her friends sat clumped together, chattering and yelling in obvious glee.
Sometimes she liked being a little separated. It made her unable to be crushed, unable to be pushed and shoved over.
Most of the time, though, Teresa hated it. She was so, so close to her friends, and yet that little gap between them made it as if she was invisible, or perhaps an invader growing parasitic roots in their space.
It didn't make sense. She was their friend, wasn't she? So why did she have to force herself into every conversation, watch them from the sidelines as they talked about things she was never a part of and people she never met? Why did she have to stand by while everyone else received praise upon praise?
Logically, she knew she was being overdramatic. Her friends liked her, wanted to include her in things, but she was just too annoying and distant for them to have fun. It's not their fault, really. She just needs to suck it up a bit more, act like it doesn't put a pit in her stomach to even think about them.
Yet the ache still persisted. The envy still sent shivers down her spine when she was awake in the night. The childish urge to yell and scream at them, to make them aware of just how much it hurts her to be near, squeezed her lungs, made tears well in her eyes.
Beside her, Teresa could hear them talk, almost feel their warmth.
She wished she could be in the middle of their group, just once. She knew the craving would only grow if she was. It was safer on the edge, where they didn't pay attention. It was colder on the edge, where she couldn't cling to them to chase off the chill.
Even when they weren't there, she could hear them. They were in her mind, parasites she herself nurtures draining each bit of strength she has left. Every thought she had was dedicated to how she could please them, make them like her.
Tears stung her eyes.
It seemed like everything she did nowadays was about them. About their approval. About their affection. About what she'd never receive but would watch get handed out and talked about and be jealous over.
It just hurt to watch everyone else around her get what she desired so much. But when it wasn't her whining over her friends not having the time for her, it was her teachers praising others for the smallest, most miniscule things.
A text interpretation they liked more, a brighter presence, a prettier drawing.
It was like everything Teresa did wasn't enough. For her friends, her teachers, her parents, herself.
When she lay in her bed each day after sunset, tears that won't fall gathering in her eyes, she swears to herself. She swears that she'll get better. She swears that her friends like her now and that they'll always like her. She swears that she'll stop talking, stop being annoying and crude and disagreeable. She prays that she's right, that her plans will work, that people will like her.
Faint sounds of cars wailed outside her window. Trains thundered down their tracks. The world moves on without her.
Sometimes, she wishes she could run in front of those cars, those trains. Force them to acknowledge her, stop them from moving on, take her with them.
The pit in her stomach, ache in her head, logic and self preservation despite what she so clearly desires stop her. It wouldn't stop anything.
People would be shocked, at first. But maybe only the only people affected would be the people in the car, the conductors of the train. Her friends probably wouldn't notice. She barely talks to them as is.
She would have a meagre funeral where barely any people show up, and then the world would move on without her as it always has, as it always will.
Teresa sighed, turning in her blanket. A lone tear slipped from her eye. Burrowing further into her pillow, she accepted her situation, surrendered to the ache in her mind and the pit in her stomach.