It is minutes to Quality Control lecture. Today I’m shaky, not typical of me; the day has pretty much started on a wrong note. Perhaps this is what happens when one tries to attempt [polite word for copying] an assignment with the deadline beckoning.
Then someone to my right bursts into a laughter. It is long enough not to ignore so I turn my head in response to the perturbation. His chin is visibly clear forming a smooth baseline for a rounded face. I can tell his mustache is freshly grown. He has no piercings or weird hairdo on. All this forms the basis of my conclusion; that this chap is a second year, besides the fact that he is in the computer lab at this hour browsing himself silly.
I spot a red patch behind his back prominent in sky blue shirt. His shirt is torn. He must have rocked a red vest that was now loudly voicing its presence through the open window. He regains his equanimity then opens another tab as if nothing is wrong. Or at least that's what he thought. I twist my head back home then resume penning my assignment down but the image of the torn shirt persists on my mind. My change of perspective on the whole issue came later that evening. I had been feeling sorry for him but this slowly faded. Perhaps the red patch was his only way of communicating with me. Silently telling me how he hasn’t stole money to buy a new shirt. How he chose not to borrow someone else’s shirt but rather accept his current fate. How his torn shirt won’t prevent him a bit from laughing and prolong his life here a year.
How change is vitally inevitable but a matter of time. The young man knew better.