"Glue" a short story

Today I witnessed something beautiful. It was a boy in the cafeteria.

He is sitting alone, although he is surrounded by other people his age, younger, and older.
These people are loud and they speak but say nothing.
But he cannot hear them.
He cannot see them.
His eyes are fixed on his slice of peperoni pizza.
There are oddly shaped spots of dried glue on his hair.
I decide he has spent his morning gluing things he'd found on the walk home the previous day onto a large piece of cardboard.
There's a quiet grin on his curled lips as he chews, patient.
He has found bliss. For this very moment.
As the spoon in his hand delicately navigates through the small, clear cup of bits of pineapple and pear, he sighs softly and his slight grin becomes wider for an instant.
And I realize he couldn't be happier to be where he is.
He is wearing a turquoise polo because he doesn't care about what other people think, or whether or not the color looks "right" on him.
He has grown small breasts because he enjoys television shows that flash bright colors.
The identity theft commercials are his favorite.
This makes him happy.
And he enjoys Rocky Road ice cream.
He has made a sport out of removing the almonds from the bowls of his Rocky Road ice cream. Fastest time: 12 seconds.
This makes him happy.
And that is all he wants out of this life for now.
Beside me, a familiar voice is asking me about why I am so quiet today.
He does not truly care to know, but he wants to fill the gap between my silence and his turn to speak.
I can hear him, but I am not listening.
This voice does not know me at all.
I shrug and continue to observe.
In awe of the simplicity of it all.
Everything around him is merely an accident, it is purposeless and he doesn't care.
The line moves forward but my eyes stay fixed on him.
I envy his bliss, his unquestioned acceptance of his world.
His understanding of "happiness" and glue and pizza just is.
It does not demand eloquence, or even awknowledgment.
It just...is.
I am not like him. I am not less.
I'm only cursed with being angry.
And forcing myself to make sense of it all.
With words and stories that mean little.
I am trapped inside myself.
Maybe I'll never be happy.
I don't feel sorry for myself - only...confused.
A distance I cannot measure.
The familiar voice says "hey," he wants me to look at him.
It's his turn to exist, his turn to say what he wants.
He cannot listen to what isn't being said.
It's the worst type of selfishness.
The ability to notice my deep despair and wonder? Unconqured.
He is lack, and that I cannot fight.
I finally turn to him, defeated.
And I say,

"It's the perfect way to say goodbye to March. "

That keeps me together.