send in the clowns!

there is a certain kind of person who performs. not for themselves, not even for the person across from them, but for the room. the idea of it. the possibility that someone, somewhere, is watching.

they are not people in the traditional sense. they are reactions. reflections. a composite of glances and passing affirmations. they measure their value by how often heads turn, how quickly the professor pauses, how long the silence lasts after their voice has filled it.

they sit at the front. always. the jokes come too loud. the laughter comes too fast. it’s not amusement. it’s a signal. look at me. hear me. i am clever. i am interesting. i am here.

one of them answers a question. the wrong answer. but with the confidence of someone who has never had to question whether or not they should be speaking. the professor hesitates. corrects gently. not quite, she says.

and for a second, no one moves. it is the most honest moment of the hour.

then someone coughs. someone laughs. the show resumes.

it is not conversation. it is not discourse. it is noise. a performance of intellect. a choreography of interruption. they talk over one another, not because they disagree, but because they cannot bear to be quiet. to be unseen. to be momentarily without spotlight.

one leans back too far in their chair. another taps a pen against the table, the rhythm like a signal flare. a third sighs — a deliberate, theatrical thing. the sigh of someone who believes their brilliance is being overlooked.

you begin to understand that none of them could survive without attention. they require it. it is oxygen. it is scaffolding. it is the thing that keeps them upright.

even their silence is performative. full of intent. a silence that waits to be noticed.

they have never known what it is to be quiet for the sake of it. to think without speaking. to speak without the need to be heard.

and that, you think, is what makes them unbearable. not the volume. not even the arrogance. but the fear they reveal. the fear that the world might be built this way — that nothing is real unless someone else is watching.

one of them makes another joke. too loud. too self-aware. the others laugh on cue. but their eyes are moving. scanning the room. who saw it. who heard. who will remember.

and for a brief second, you wonder what would happen if no one did.