Somewhere In Brooklyn

13 - November 9

Earlier today at English class, we were asked to write an essay about one memory from our childhood, a memory of us believing in something.

I wrote about aliens and robots, but not in a way a nine-year-old would see them as.

I used to believe that I was the only person in the world. That the rest of the people were just robots and the aliens that were hiding above the timeless space were controlling them to play tricks on me. Everyone was programmed to be unique—their appearances and personalities—everything about them, so no one's fully identical. And because they're robots, they don't feel the hurt that I'm feeling. The loneliness, the hole in my stomach. The constant worrying of everything's gonna crumble down and everyone will turn against me.

I grew up and that silly theory was debunked when I found out about Adam and Eve. Still, there were times when my theory felt like a reality.

What made me snap from it was when I started to hear my sister crying at nights more and more. At first, I had a silly thought that the aliens upgraded the robots. But when I looked into her gray eyes, I saw a deep abyss of darkness. And that's when I knew that she's not a robot because there's no way in heaven and hell that aliens can copy exactly the same nothingness from my blue eyes to my sister's gray ones.

And now, I can see them in your green eyes, too.