She was always early for class.
I was always late.
I never looked at her for too long.
But whenever I walked in I caught her gaze.
It made me uncomfortable.
For it was never my intention to be noticeable.
Many students at college, I saw them,
they craved attention, it's a time of personal invention and reinvention and transformation.
I was the exception.
I craved no attention.
My transformation occurred privately.
When a teacher announced to the whole class that I earned the highest grade, I asked him to step outside with me for a minute.
And never again did he announce it.
I took a seat and every 30 seconds or so she looked at me.
I could see her in the reflection of the window.
Sometimes I would turn around, our eyes would meet and she'd look away, in awesome fear.
They all saw something in me they'd never seen.
Our teacher, especially.
That's one of the reasons, in spite of always saying no comment, teacher would call on me.
The others never got to read what she got to read.
She was the only to read what I wrote for the assignments.
She was the only who got to see.
To pass this class, I learned to transform the science, the experiments, the calculations and numbers into literature.
My teacher, she was the only who got to see this.
The only who read it.
It's been over 20 years and she has not returned my final works to me.
Ah, she can keep it.
I raised my hand one day and said "Comment."
The class was stunned.
Teacher said "Please go on, son!"
Astonishing, even to me that THE SILENT can so capture the attention.
Teacher said "Well done, Son.
Please, find your courage to speak more often.
I think our class needs to hear it."
Mira said "Well said. I too wish you'd speak more often."
I don't know why but I was upset.
Because I wanted to be me, always me.
I never wanted to be one of them.
I didn't want to be expected to speak.
I only wanted to be the quiet, invisible me.
In a lab, with science and the Math, existing comfortably.
My life changed at the end of class:
We were to turn in an assignment and I forgot;
I forgot to staple the pages.
And I had no paper clips.
Nor did Teacher.
But she had a small stapler, Mira.
She took the pages and bound them.
And as she handed them back to me, our hands touched, our eyes locked and our hearts jumped.
Suddenly, Science was no longer my only love.
Surprising.
Almost shocking,
Mira and I.
An unlikely pairing of Black and White.
Suddenly, out the window it went,
the terrible history.
All that was left:
was this pretty woman standing next to me.
And the love we shared.
This angel lying next to me.
She made me care.
She was real!
Oh, how she stared,
the way she always looked at me—
someone with whom I would start a family.
Who gave me two great kids.
Brought out the love inside of me
and made me work so hard to build our family.
Now they're gone.
Victims of the Organization.
That's what they took from me.
Mira.
Gone.
Her eyes,
her touch,
her kiss,
our kids,
and all their love.
All gone.
To say I'm vengeful, hateful and homicidal wouldn't even begin to cover it.
Wouldn't scratch the surface.
There's a whole in my heart than can never be filled.
But what comes next will be a start.
So let's begin.
