He had the biggest ears. They heard all the stories, lies, gossip, and secrets. Each passing day he listened to her feeble voice grow weaker. He took in her silent cries. He took in everything, as was his nature. He knew exactly what was going on, and it meant nothing to him, just like the rest of the seemingly useless tidbits he gathered.

He had the smallest mouth. A plethora of information was held in his prison lips that never released the secrets he captured.

Gliding past a sea of students in the crowded cafeteria, he made his way past her silent plea: “Help me.” She whispered nothing, but the plate full of untouched food and her translucent skin clinging desperately to her fragile bones screamed at him. He saw. He heard. He knew. Criticizing herself because of a carrot stick. Criticizing herself because she was sick. Criticizing herself because she felt no better than this.

One day as he shuffled past her table, he noticed her pleas for help had vanished. His quick pang of guilt was soon lost in petty gossip.

He had the biggest ears.

He had the smallest mouth.