Longing

Longing

Unknowingly, my eyes wandered off in her direction again. Noticing my gaze, she gave me a smile and a little wave; I faintly smiled back at her, yet my heart went the opposite way, as it thumped quickly and made me feel all nervous. She was looking bored, like everyone else in the class, as the English teacher droning on and on. Every minute detail, every little action was amplified when I saw it. Her hands that went down her calf to pull up her socks, the long smooth fingers of hers performing the action almost in slow motion, the blinking of her eyes, the long lashes moving up and down gracefully, and the tiny droplets of tears that squeezed out of her eyes as she yawned. As if caught by a sudden thought, she paused in thought for a second, holding her head high up in the air as she thought of something. As inspiration struck, she quickly turned her attention to writing it down on a book, captivated in her own world, yet captivating me as well.

The incessant whispers filled the room, sounding like a radio station with bad reception. Yet, whenever she talked, her voice was crystal clear to me. Every single word of hers was as though she was sitting next to me, and I could even hear her soft breathing in my ear, although most of that must be my imagination. I threw another sneaky glance at her, as she still was busily scribbled something down. Just one look, could make me long for something I wished I would be able to do, but always out of reach. Knowing that I could not concentrate on my work anymore; I pushed aside my drawing of another car aside, promising myself to finish it later.

The last bell took its time to ring, and when it did, even before the teacher could leave the room, students came alive, talking about their plans for the day, which movie they would catch, where to get the latest shirts, and generally shallow, insignificant things, like how all of them were, and always would be. Once again, I was unable to notice her approaching, for I was too caught up in my own thoughts. “Biology?” she asked, waving another brand new assessment book in front of me. The smile on her face was the usual smile: the one that grabbed my heart.

“Where do you get the money to buy so many of these books…” I sighed as we strolled to her desk. She was grinning happily, like a young child that just been given some candy. We sat down next to each other, and she flipped open the book, its pages all crisp and new, with the smell of plastic and wood and ink breaking into the air.

She rubbed the book on her face, the teal of the book cover starkly contrasting with her smooth, almost translucent face. “I like the smell of new books. Helps me concentrate better.” If anyone had not said that she looked so beautiful, I would have told her that a million times already.

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Next time, just invent a new perfume called ‘The Book Smell: Guaranteed to Make You Smell Like New Books!’, so that you have no more need to buy new books every single time you want to start revising,” I told her, and she broke into laughter, a sound of pure joy rippling in the air, attracting the attention of any of the students remaining. She quickly quietened down, the twinkle of mirth still in her eyes.

We went about the usual business of revising using the new assessment book; with her attempting the questions, with me sitting at the side correcting her and answering any doubts she has, while reading a book and pretending sitting beside the girl of my dreams every single day is completely fine and bearable. I am not the best student in the school, but I have knowledge of the minute details that is apparently not in the syllabus but is needed in the exams. So here I am, coaching her in her studies. Sitting beside her, just centimetres away from where I want to be, yet I know clearly this distance is unconquerable.

The revision went without a hitch, and as we took the bus back home, she yawned and complained that my explanations were too long, and simply listening to them made her tired. I smiled; in spite of what she said, she still did studiously copied down word for word of what I had said.

Our favourite song - Ecstasy by ATB - started playing on the iPod we were sharing. Both of us kept silent for the whole duration of the song, an unspoken rule for both of us. The song was pure bliss for both of us (or at the very least, for me), partly because I had always wanted to say the words to her. I had the fear of losing her as a friend, and spoiling our relationship. I had never been able to take the step, and the pain of losing her would be too much for me to bear. Yet, there were many times when I could almost not stop myself from just holding her in my arms, feeling her warmth, smelling her almond-scented hair up close. Such pain tore me apart, and those days were hard to pass, especially with her right next to me.

She fell asleep, head landing gently on my shoulder, while the song was still playing. My heart went crazy; part of me wanted to hug her tightly, to confirm my doubts, yet part of me still held back, the cowardly part of me. The poor heart of mine felt as though it was wrenched apart, the pain squeezing at me, slowly torturing me. If not for fear of waking her up, I would have laughed, laughed at the incredible way fate had chosen to torture me. Three words came out of her mouth, the three words that made me know that my wait was over. As she hugged my arm tightly, the words seeped out of her mouth, a faint murmur, yet so loud, and so strongly echoing in my brain, ”I love you.”