A Glassful of Water
It’s exactly twelve o’ clock in the morning. A girl with a very messy ponytail sits idly by her desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. I know it’s time to sleep, but I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to walk across the living room and go to bed, she thought to herself.
She got home a bit late, staying for a while because of a meeting. She just came from her dormitory, and the trip wasn’t a short one.
Tired, hungry but feeling light-headed, she arrived home, and greeted her father with a kiss and a courteous taking of the hand to her forehead. But she knows something’s wrong.
This unusual girl has a secret that only she thinks she knows. She keeps a glass full of water near the brim, and every single drip of water, no matter how small, will eventually lead the water to overflow. Her glass fills up again.
She watches her father walk limply across the room. He’s already near his sixties, and not in his prime health. She wonders if her father will ask her about what happened during the week, about her school studies, and if she made any new friends. But it’s just silence.
She apologized days before, even though all she ever did was cry.
She looks at her father once more, remembering the words he said just a couple of days before she went back to the dormitory. Was it about the problem with an appliance she was supposed to fix? Yes it was. But she didn’t fix it. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t.
She ponders over what happened, and realized what she cried about was too simple. What her father got mad about was too simple. Why do I overthink such simple things, she asked.
She’s always known to face problems alone, without telling anybody about them at all. So when there came a time that she failed to meet the high expectations she most likely set upon herself, she broke down. Who knew she was suffering over a lot of things that teenagers suffer from? Is it even normal? Is it an over-assessment? Was her not doing of what she was asked to do rooted by laziness, or by distraction caused by a new problem?
She finally stands up, sick of tiring her eyes out with endless blinks against the bright computer screen. She washes her face, brushes her teeth and goes to bed. She lays there for awhile, not even bothering to pull the blanket over her, despite feeling the coldness of the air.
When will my father and I talk casually again? Will we ever jog in the morning anymore? Will he playfully punch me or tickle me when I’m least aware of it.
She hears a rustling sound, and the sound of the door opening. She keeps still, because her mother must not know she slept so late. She then feels the weight of the soft blanket over her, and a pair of warm hands tucking her to sleep. Then she hears the rhythmical stepping of alternate feet, and knows that the person who tucked her to sleep couldn’t walk very much.
Her glass fills up again. And she remembers to kneel down to the ground to thank for the father that she has.
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