Verse 11

Back in my room, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

I got back and just sat on the bed for a while. Didn’t even take off my shoes.

I tossed the empty juice plastic cup into the bin and let myself collapse on the bed, arms flung wide like a dramatic actor in an old play. Except this stage had no audience. Just my small desk, some half-arranged books, and a window that didn’t open all the way.

I stared up at the ceiling.

Music still playing in my ears—some lo-fi beat, something easy to drown in—but my mind wandered anyway.

I turned over and grabbed one of the books from my bag. Notebooks, mostly. Old stuff from high school. Some notes. Some stories I never finished. A few bad poems.

I found a page folded at the corner.

It was a monologue I wrote during Literature class my final year. The one Miss Tessmacher said was “a little too honest.”

I read it again, lips moving silently, mouthing out the words like I was on a stage somewhere far away.

It was about a boy who felt invisible in a room full of people. Who smiled so no one would ask questions. Who cracked jokes so no one would notice he never laughed at them.

I put the page down.

Checked the time.

9:43 PM.

The Open Mic was probably in full swing by now. 

Maybe Elena was on stage. 

Maybe she was watching someone else perform, her chin on her palm again, leaning in like she did earlier, eyes lighting up when something caught her interest.

I pictured the scene. Music. Laughter. That kind of energy that only exists when people are brave enough to share something of themselves.

Malik left a few minutes ago, grabbing his speaker and walking out in a hurry. He tried to get me to go for the last time but here I was.

Lying on my bed like I always do. Safe. Comfortable. Boring.

I sat up.

Stared at the door.

Then shook my head and leaned back down.