You first saw him when you came for Post-UTME, a sickly looking teenager with a baby face that gets you asking what he was doing here, in a fucking university. Even one of the invigilators thought so too, as he asked him his age.
Then fast forward to clearance-you saw him yet again, this time with glasses and a too-heavy backpack that seemed to drag him down. But you did not talk to him. You watched him submit his file, saw him leave.
He would always sit at the back of the class, talking to no one. Sometimes, he would sit in the nearby cartoon, nose in a book, and eating. He always looked too busy, not caring about general classes or the noise around him. He came to school when he wanted, and left when he wanted. He still doesn’t talk to anybody.
You noticed the wrist band, the one he was always tugging as he read. You agreed he was too a mystery to not know more about. And you walked to him and said hi. He didn’t really want to talk to you at first, replying your inquisitive questions with bland ‘okays’ and monosyllabic words. He soon loosened up when you told him you love to read, and listen to songs from Logic and J.Cole.
He was very sarcastic, and had an opinion about everyone, even you. Funny too, made himself the butt of his jokes.
But you didn’t ask him about the scars he covers with the wrist band, you only read the stories he wrote. They were too dark, sad, and filled with images of death. He read your stories too, and laughed at your cheesy lines.
And you are friends now, he smiles more, you too.
Maybe one day you’ll ask him why he wants to die, why he cuts himself.
But really, why do people cut themselves?
You asked Boom yesterday, and she said,
“You want to numb the pain you feel inside, but you will find out that you cannot, so you cut deeper and deeper.”
Sometimes, you just want to cut your pain into bits.