She was always the kind of person who blended into walls well, really well, like cement well. She would disappear into a crowd like she was paid to do it; just because she was always did it so well, like she was invisible. And people who didn't know her, well, they never did; and the people that did, they simply didn't care. She was an ornament, a decoration, an additional head to the sea of breathing treading vibrating carcass of those existing. She was disposable.
In true spec-dust spirit, she refused to hold parties, refused to date, refused to recite in class. She refrained from doing anything that would get her noticed, that would allow people to see her, even just the husk that she was -- the statue of a husk that she was. No one ever knew her: the girl in a corner with a book in her face, her hands on her lap, her eyes to the floor. The girl in the corner with her shirt a size too big, with her bag slung too low, with her lips sealed shut. Nothing but the girl in the corner accumulating dust.
Mostly, she was afraid. She was the kind of afraid that was afraid of everything. She was afraid of becoming everything she saw, of everything she heard. She was afraid of turning into a statistic, a story, a cliche. So instead, she became nothing. She stayed a stagnant little drop of nothing.
Forever breathing, forever being, yet never living. You can be and never really be. And she was, but never truly was. She became the cliche, the story, the statistic. She became what she feared: a tragedy.
