The afternoon sun filters through the dusty windows of the community center, casting long shadows over the worn linoleum floor. I sit on a crooked plastic chair, watching as the girl leans in close to the old man sitting on the bench near the bulletin board.
“You’re so slow, you can’t even keep up anymore.”
The old man’s hands tighten into fists, yet he says nothing. There’s a heaviness in the air, a silence that follows her words, as if everyone else is pretending not to hear.
The community center is supposed to be a place where the locals can take a break from their problems, a neutral ground. Yet, lately, it feels as if an unseen line of power has been drawn, a divide that grows with each passing day.
The girl, backed by her friends, has a freedom here that others lack. Her presence is loud and disruptive, and it seems no one is willing to intervene. A week ago, she spat on the floor near where the old man usually sits.
I remember how he tried to speak up, only to be cut off quickly. The staff exchanged worried glances, but nothing more was said. It’s as if the girl’s family connections shield her from any real consequences.
Now, there’s a meeting scheduled for next week to address the growing complaints about behavior at the center. Part of me wants to speak up, to bring light to the tension simmering beneath the surface, but I fear the repercussions.
I fear making things worse for the old man, who’s caught in the middle of it all. Every day, the tension builds, like a storm waiting to break. The girl’s voice still rings in my ears, and I brace myself for what’s to come.
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