I had a friend read my palm earlier this year. She told me two things, one of them is that I’m nice. (Or maybe kind. Or are the two words interchangeable? She spoke to me in Malay, and I’m still working on at my grasp of Semantics.) I’ve always known that fact. It’s kind of redundant finding because deep, deep down inside, EVERYONE is nice. Regardless, I took that in stride and bragged that to everyone who listened. (Whether she made those things up is another story.)
I began to list down the nice things I do, to assure myself that I am actually a nice person. (But after a while, I realized making a list also makes me a conceited being.) Among on the list is talking to unfamiliar faces at the usual places I frequent.
Making people feel welcome and at ease is part of being nice. I know that I try to do that whenever there is someone new in class or a new environment, especially if they are alone. Watching them fidget in uncertainty does not sit well with me. I feel like it is a social responsibility, not because I’m friendly. Trust me, I’m not.
Chatty? Yes. Friendly? No way.
Maybe it’s because I have moved three times while growing up. So I understand how it is to not know who will acknowledge your presence when you cast a friendly smile, or merely shrug you off as if you’re smiling to the invisible person behind them. Then you’re left feeling awkward and wish you have the Internet so you can post another ‘Forever Alone’ post on your Tumblr.
So I talk to them, minimal talk consisting of dreary information and dull gossip. Just enough talk to make them feel annoyed by my presence, hence, quickly excuse themselves to mandatorily meet the less weird-looking person on my left. That’s what I do, I take of the jitters and give the boost of “I can do better”.
But sometimes, on my good days, I will earnestly talk to them. I will make sure their words stick in my brain, instead of going out in another ear. And I will play the part of the lovely girl, and shove the real, quirky (ehem) me down to my knees. It doesn’t happen often, just once in a tedious blue moon.
The point is that I can indeed create new relationships at the back of my hand. But cultivating them is another story. One I will tell when I no longer despise myself for it.
