If you ever ask me why I'm so quiet,
I'm inclined to get defensive.
See, it's something I'm insecure about, something I can't quite sum up with words I never use anyway. You're one of the few people I can envision myself confiding in, it's like we have an unspoken understanding. You put up with me. You stand by me. Because you're a nice person, a true Boy Scout. I'm not sure how to feel about that. I don't want pity, but I'll take what I can get. So if you hypothetically asked me why I'm so quiet, how would I hypothetically respond? Well, I would say... it's a part of me, just like my freckles and 20/40 vision. It's a part of me that I quite often dislike, maybe even hate. Why, though? Because I'm scared. At the core of things, it's fear that drives my silence. Anxiety. You scare me. My classmates scare me. People scare me. People...scare me. In the end, that's the sad truth. I can't really imagine what you'd hypothetically say back. Something sympathic, maybe? Telling me everyone's insecure and awkward and scared sometimes. And I would tell you how hard it's been, how this isn't normal fear. I know what that feels like too. This is not it. This keeps me from having friends. This forces me to dread the awkward silences so much, I create them without thinking. This isn't normal. I have it worse. And I think you'd understand. More or less. You like me now, for some reason. I wonder if telling you all this would scare you away.
Maybe some time, only if you ask, I'll find out.