Perhaps One

At a restaurant in downtown, a reunion of old friends made itself known with loud laughs and servers carrying trays with many diverse plates.

The conversers were divided. More conversations than people went on and often one in the middle of the table found himself juggling three talks at once. Each couple had to plan accordingly.

I was there, talking to my cousin, my friend, my aunt. Such separate talks, those we'd never have in public if the ambience wasn't so overwhelming.

As I described my life to those around me I realized how different those descriptions were: no lies came from me but each word was refined subconsciously, depending on the listener.

I thought of how no one knows the true picture of your life but you: surely there are some things you never share with your parents, others you never want to discuss with your peers, still others you'd never tell a teacher.

I felt as though I was in pieces: I wanted not all of these people's love but something even more difficult: their understanding.