Compassion. What is such a thing? For I know none of. Imagine that, though. Being shown compassion. It could be from anyone. A love interest. A friend. A stranger. A soul. A heart. Imagine compassion. Oh. For she is the star I may never reach; but watch from afafar as everyone, but I get to enjoy her presence. Like Romeo and Juliet. Only my Romeo, I ponder where thy of is mythical. So, imagine. Imagine a world of great compassion.

My mother drives me home; if I have the right to call it that, to me it’s an asylum, where I am forever captcaptivated.

Old-rock music plays, as she asks me about my day. I don’t answer; for I know she doesn’t truly care. That’s fine. She never has. It’s like she’s trying to make up for something. Well, not something. Everything.

God. I feel... empty, hollow even. Does everyone feel like this? No, they can’t. Maybe- no. It’s just me. I’M weird one, THEY are not; and that’s just life. I just- “We’re here, and next time I bring you home, I expect a thank you.” I take a deep, llung-stretching, breath.

Inhale. Release. Smiling painfully, I answered, “thank you.” With a scoff she slams the old, dusty, car door shut, making the dust particles scatter, and elegantly float away.

Yeah, it’s definitely just me.