Diandra Ditma Macarambon
Olivia picks at her food slowly as though she were bored. She looks around the school cafeteria with a blank face. She nods her head in response to a student’s greeting. She looks like she’s about to burst out laughing, or maybe burst into tears. I, staring at her, can’t really tell. She has mastered the art of looking poker-faced. And then, she suddenly looks at me. Straight into my eyes. Piercing. I feel like my heart is being squeezed. I feel this strong urge to wrap her in my arms if only to lessen the coldness of her stare. She raises her eyebrows to ask what’s wrong. I shrug. She continues to pick at her food. She carefully separates the bits of vegetables from her noodles. One by one, she patiently puts the vegetable bits on my plate.
“Hey! What the . . .
