When we sat down next to each other, we didn’t say anything. Your shoes had touched mine, but no one said anything. I picked at the pieces of fake grass and kept pulling them out. The silence was too loud, never broken. I kept pulling at the grass. Your shoes were still touching mine, and we were both well aware of it. What’s on your mind? Say something, anything. I kept pulling at the grass. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing to say. I just kept pulling at the grass. My friends were talking, but I couldn’t hear them. Just the pulling of the grass. And my thoughts. How I wish I could just hear yours, too. I felt the grass between my fingers, I felt our shoes tapping ever so gently, barely noticeable. But it was definitely there. Everyone finally got up and you ran to the nearest person you knew. I ripped one last piece of grass out of the ground and saw that there was a small patch in the field from where I messed up the fake grass, and there were small pieces of plastic around it. I should have said something. You should have said something. Sitting Down 11 by Julia Russell ’31
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