A Hallway Drama

He couldn’t understand her, somehow, and he wondered if she understood herself. All he could see was worn-out shoes, socks, a face devoid of makeup, and an ambition.

But he couldn’t tell if she was pretty. Or if she was the kind of pretty that you read about in books; so natural that somehow a beauty shined through as the sun hit her eyes and he leaned in for a kiss, with the heavens singing and the stars aligning, and the grass billowing, and her beautiful mind humming…and the sentences running on and on and on.

He saw her try to protect herself from being made foolish. From being too loving. He saw her heart, tightening slowly at an unanswered text message, and the ice behind her eyes hardening as she saw friends together without her. But he never said a word. Not ever. He looked at her for a long time in the hallway, when she didn’t notice, because she was too busy talking. Or maybe she pretended not too notice. They both knew she would do that.

But he also saw bright smiles, so bright they made his heart flutter. He watched her hands as she doodled, so bored by menial tasks. He turned his head quickly when she looked over. He knew she thought he didn’t remember her. Didn’t care to talk to her. But he did. Oh yes he did.

 

But he would say something boring, and she might be confused, and then he would go home pretending not to care. And he would come back to class, pretending not to remember. And he would see her, slouched in her seat, feet up on the back of someone else’s chair, not bothered to take her notebook out yet, and he would pretend he didn’t see her.