An Unexpected Narrator:

 

 

I am the potted plant on her windowsill. I've been here for months now. Silently there observing, sitting in solitude, appreciated and looked upon for brief moments at a time, but mostly just a curious object dotting the background with life and color. I've watched her smile; I've watched her work. I watch her get ready for the day and get ready to go to bed. I'm with her when she's up at all hours of the night, reading a book for school or for fun. She sits by the window and breathes the fresh air to help ease her anxious mind, laughs with friends, does her makeup before long nights out, stumbles into bed, and wakes up hunting for her water bottle, usually right next to me.
   I've seen her cry. She tries to be tough, and sometimes I can tell she needs to even before she does. When she finally cracks, I stand up a little straighter for her. I can't give her the hug she needs, but maybe if I look better, she'll know something is trying right there with her, and she can pull herself out of the pain. When she cries, her tears are rivers, and sometimes I wish I could be feeling the tears from her eyes. She tends to forget to water me when she is sad like this, but I forgive her. I know it's not personal. A person in pain is more numb to the suffering of others.
   I've watched her with different boys. I watch them make her laugh. I watch them break her heart. I watch them tell her lies, listening as she believes them. Sometimes those boys make her forget about me; I have been moved around for their convenience. I am judged by them, and though she defends me, she falls victim to their opinions. I watch over time as those opinions they have of her slowly make her sad. I love it when she shows her pain and emotion over these boys through her actions. She lays on her bed and scribbles or types incessantly. I can hear her thoughts, and I know the act of writing them down is better therapy than anything my presence can do. But I still watch. I'm still there. 
   Sometimes she dances around the room. The music is so loud sometimes, and it amazes me she's never gotten a knock on the door asking her to turn it down. Sometimes she dances for herself, twirls, wiggles, and shows off her angles, putting on a show for herself, but she imagines other people watching. I love it when this happens. She looks in the mirror in these moments, and she smiles at herself, laughs at herself. I want to tell her I'm proud of her. Proud that she's seeing, even for a second, what I see every single day. But I've also watched her dance as a form of therapy. She needs to move to stop herself from doing something, anything else. She's been harmed, so the physical movements allow her to feel a release that can't be replicated in any other way. 
   I watch her make mistakes. As everybody does. When she comes into the room, I can tell how she's feeling, and sometimes I'm relieved. She's learning, growing, and I'm growing along with her. A silent friend on her windowsill. She smiles at me sometimes, notices when I need some TLC, and whispers she's sorry as she gives me more water.
   She is beautiful, but she will never admit it. Though I've heard people tell her. She rolls her eyes and looks down at the ground. Their opinions are important, but they're not her own, and she doesn't know how to change the one that matters most. Someday, I may not be her potted plant anymore. She may get caught up in her own life and forget about me. She may give me away. But I'll always appreciate watching her live and getting a taste of the human experience from the lens of her little room, which she chose for me to be a part of.