I sit on a bench

I sit on a bench staring into space. The bench is familiar from all of the times I lugged (and carried) it around our school theater. I had sat on that bench (or one that was super similar) through three shows. I had sat (and sometimes stood) on the bench while acting out stories when I was five years old. You could measure my growth by how my ability to carry that bench.

Now, I am just sitting there. Feeling out of place. This was my fifth show but I had never been the one to set out the benches and chairs and the TV-monitor. I was normally the one who watched. The one who laughed at my friends as they used funny accents and did silly dances. They then, in turn would watch me.

I think about the past few months. How hard I tried to pretend that I liked to drill and cut and move things around as much as I liked to perform. At times, I had felt like I really was doing it. Then I would remember how it felt to make an audience laugh, how it felt to make my friends laugh.

Sitting here, on this special bench I know that no matter how much I pretend, and although this is where I want to be, I don't belong here.