have someone I constantly talk about —
behind her back.
She's pretty.
Tall.
Lovable.
Smart — but Naive.
She knows nothing about the world.
Always at the top of the class.
She joined her first beauty pageant,
not because she wanted to,
but because people forced to do so,
Knowing she'd win.
And she did —
with her smile.
and brains.
Getting things other people didn't even try to dream.
Me and my friends…
we constantly talked about her.
Mimicking her voice,
copying her laugh,
making fun of the way she acts.
Because how could someone so perfect
act so naive?
How could someone so loved
still complain about her stress?
She had nothing to worry about —
no chores waiting at home,
no bills, no late nights working.
All she had were grades,
exams, and medals.
While we —
we had life.
We had noise.
We had tired hearts and heavy hands.
We mocked her.
We talked badly about her.
And I didn't realize —
not at first —
that maybe,
we weren't really hating her.
We were envious of her.
Envious that she could study
without worrying about anything else.
Envious that her parents could provide her a good life,
while we struggled to survive.
Envious that she was loved,
admired,
and seen.
Tbinking that Maybe.
Maybe…
if I didn't have to worry so much,
If I don't have work late at night.
I could be like her too,
Worrying only about grades,
Worrying about face.
Maybe I could also be happy.
But now I know —
envy is a quiet kind of pain.
It hides behind laughter,
and whispers behind closed doors.
We talk about her
But deep inside
We want to be someone like her.