jml297

They’re talking in whispers, but I can still hear them. Not all the words—only the sharp ones, the fragments that carry. They scrape along the air and find me anyway.

I lift my chin, daring them to look at me, to say aloud what they only share with each other. They don’t. When one of them glances my way, the look slides off, brief and empty. It never lands. I consider confronting them, stepping into the space they think is closed. I’ve done it before. The sudden silence. The practised smiles. The offended denials. Knowing the words are about me is bad enough; watching them pretend otherwise is worse.

They think they know me. That they have me measured. It would almost matter if there were truth in it. Instead, they trade in repetition—rumours passed along because they’re easier than thought. Second-hand stories, thinned with every telling. Perhaps that’s the appeal. It lends their days a small drama they would otherwise lack.

Whispers have a life of their own. They cling to whatever truth they can find and refuse to let go. Separating one from the other takes more patience than most people are willing to give. It’s simpler to accept what’s offered, to move on without looking too closely.

And so they whisper. I keep my face still, jaw set, because I’ve learned that even the smallest reaction only feeds them.

Photo: three wise owls