At 16 years old, 160 centimetres (or 5 feet 3 inches), 60 kg (or 132 pounds). She liked that all these measurements included 6. 6.6.6. Oh no, the number of the beast! Such blasphemy!
In her school, no one had her name, which was convenient. She craved uniqueness in all things, and she was happy that that was present in her very name. No one would have to differentiate between her and another person who shared the same name during attendance-taking and whatnot. Anna with a double 'n'? Ana with a single 'n'? That was how the teachers and students did it occasionally.
She used to keep her dark hair short, but as she got older, she decided to grow it out. She was never fond of how her ends would curl at the sides of her face like the jagged leaves of a fern. As of now, her hair falls to the sides of her waist, stark black and straight, like licorice. Some of her schoolmates think it's nice, some say it's too long and that she'll look nicer with shorter hair. She considered their opinions, but in her heart, as always, she rebelled against those who didn't appreciate the length of her hair as much as she did. I feel more beautiful with longer hair.
Unlike the majority of people in her theatre class, she was extremely introverted. I feel like I enjoy being alone too much. The exploding and, after a long period time, aggravating energies of her classmates tired her; it sucked away her comfort with the outside world. So, much like the frequent and constant 5 minute breaks during study sessions, she would allow herself to be alone whenever necessary, so that she can recover her ease with her surroundings through the inside world. Inwards, she would push her spirit inwards into her own world, while struggling to fight her conscience. Quit acting lonely, will you? Get off of your chair and start talking to people. You're being so weird!
Little did she know that lonely and alone were two very different situations. And soon enough, she would grasp the contrast between the two, sitting cross-legged on her yellow chair in class, ears bathing in good rock music with the softest smile playing on her lips.
I live and breathe art, she finds herself saying ever so quietly in the back of her mind, with every second of her life. She may not hear it clearly, amidst all the doubts, failures and fears that come by and poke around her head, but at the end of the day, she knows that this is her identity. Which is ironic. The last time she created something on her own was an attempt at performance art during her cohort's celebration of four years in school. In that entire span of three hours, (hence the constant chatter from her schoolmates: "She's still at it?", "This is so intense") her body morphed into a paper-eating fetus, sluggishly gnawing away at the paper underneath her and spitting them out, then into a person making love with cold, wet blue paint, curling and bending and tensing and catapulting every single limb like an electrocuted earthworm (or firework or noodle or glow stick, who knows). After that "crazy, amazing, daring" experiment, she rested back into her plain old, inert human body sinking into the seat of the bus heading home, concluding that she has completely lost herself. I don't know who I am anymore. By aiming to be an artist in the future would mean that she would have to sacrifice the one thing that humanity takes very good care of: their identity.
Her name meant subuh; fertile. Her father said, "Not that kind of fertile." Then what kind of fertile? I don't get it. In the end, that didn't change anything. Her ribcage still hugged her heart safely; never crushing and never distancing, and her mind still drinked up the sweetness of the stars she will be amongst one day.