There she sat, the girl.

Furiously writing in her book, only pausing to look around her, up at the sky, at peoples’ faces, whatever was near. I never saw her eat, never saw her talk. She just wrote, with a passion that seemed to quench her hunger, her need for a voice. There was never a soul near her. We all thought she had some serious problem, she was a loser. I never spoke to her, I didn’t think I needed to. We just called her names as we walked by every day.

She was always there, never absent. She almost never moved from that bench. The teachers eventually gave up on asking her to move, they ended up ignoring her just like the rest of us did. They probably whispered about her, just like us.

And then she wasn’t there.

I was shocked. I couldn’t understand it. I told my friends, who laughed and said, "Who cares?" They didn’t, but something in me made me feel I had to. I spent the whole day thinking about it. Where had the girl gone? I couldn’t get the image of her out of my head. Every time I walked past that bench I would glance over, expecting to see her. Sitting there, writing.

When the final bell rang and the school was deathly hollow and emptied, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I went and sat on the bench. Her bench. I closed my eyes and imagined what she might have been like. When I opened them again, I saw a flash of blue through the slats of the bench. I reached down and tugged at the object. It was the girl’s book! I dropped it quickly and looked around. I could almost feel her watching me. Slowly, I bent over and picked it up. I paused, before opening the book to its first page. There was a poem written there. Strong, almost powerful emotions flooded from it…anger, pain, loneliness. I turned the next page, indulging in the contents and marvelling at the wonderful feelings expressed though the poems. I flicked page after page, and eventually came to a blank one. It upset me that it wasn’t complete. I shut the book, tucked it under my arm, and walked home.

The next day, I sat on the girl’s bench. I carefully pulled out her thoughts – her book – and retrieved a pen from the depths of my schoolbag. I began to write, to complete the book. The whole day I sat there. Endless strange glances were directed at me and I heard echoing whispers as people walked past. But I didn’t care. They all whispered, "Where is the girl?"

But she is gone.

And I am her.