The Bench

There is a girl who sits on a bench. She is always alone.

She watches as the world passes by in a blur of color and conversation that she knows she will never be able to replicate.

She grows, and the world seems to move too quickly, passing between her fingertips when she attempts to reach out.

There are times when someone can see her. When they approach, and stand in front of her bench.

But none of them will sit with her. She will always be alone.

Someone says her bench is too unrefined.

She tries to fix it, to make the bench pristine and presentable.

The next person claims the bench is too elegant to interact with.

She does not remember the bench's original appearance before she desperately changed it in her attempts to fit in.

The girl does her best to keep up, to make the bench ready for the next person to see her.

It may take days, weeks, months. She never gets to choose.

It is never enough.

She has not met the people who will finally sit with her.

They will come, unbeknownst to her.

For now, she will sit.

Alone.

Watching, and yearning to join the world she will never be able to understand.

A world she knows she will never fit into.