The bells rang. It was time for class. He would walk to literature; she would walk to biology. He loved literature and hated her for it, and she hated him in return. The next bell rang in an hour. She would walk to philosophy, and he would walk to physics. The bells rang again, another hour later—it was break.
“How was philosophy?” he would ask, as usual.
“It was fine; we studied Victorian romantics,” she would say.
“A bit unusual for the great rationalists, isn’t it?” he would ask.
At this, she would make a face, half a smile, half offended. It lasts a second or two, and it breaks to just a smile, light laughter, even. “Not at all, unlike the physicians.”
“Physicist,” he corrects. They enjoyed this so much that it happened every day—one variation of it or another. She would then go back to revising for a test tomorrow or next week. He would go back to his reading.
After school, they all walk home—he and she on the same path. In a few minutes, the road has fewer people and more trees, and their steps slowly fall a bit closer to each other.
(pat, pat, pat…)
Even slower, files and books switched hands: free hands waving at each step, moving ever so slowly towards each other.
(pat, pat, pat…)
At one stride, as if completely by mistake, their fingers brush; for a second, a miniscule fraction of it. It slows down on the next rendezvous, like a moving magnet passing another. It slows down again.
(pat, pat, pat…)
By now, their hands barely move, each heart beating in almost synchrony: anticipating, calculating, debating, comparing, and finally, deciding.
(pat, pat…)
It would be unjust to credit one of them, but it’d be the same to credit them both. So, by the work of god, nature, themselves, and the blessings of broken hearts and hearts that died fluttering, they finally held hands. It was anything but perfect, each hand grabbing the other’s thumb—it was rushed, imperfect—it was theirs.
(pat, pat, pat…)
“The ball is in two weeks,” he says.
“Yes…” Was it a statement?
“Do you want to... come with me?”
“I thought we were going together." She loves to play oblivious.
“You know what I mean...”
“Yes,” she says, “I’d love to.”
(pat, pat, pat…)
They reach the final junction. This is where they met to walk to school; this is where they parted ways after school. They may have walked here to and from school a thousand times.
“Well, it looks like the trip’s over,” he says.
She says nothing, but (only to him), it seems as if her face just turned gloomy. He looks straight over, towards his house. No one is outside; no one is looking.
“It’s fine; I’ll walk you down halfway through,” he smiles.
She says nothing, but the new gleam in her eyes tells him enough. They walk down together, hands still holding thumbs. Nothing else is said between them, and the promised halfway becomes three-fourths and eventually the entirety. When her gate is in sight, they stop. Neither let go of the other’s hands, nor did they proceed on their own paths.
“Until tomorrow?” He asks, in farewell.
“Until tomorrow.”
They held their gaze for a second and slowly, almost reluctantly, let their hands loose. They smile, and he turns and walks away, just as she walks to her gate.
(pat, pat, pat…) (pat, pat, pat…)
(pat, pat, pat…) (pat, pat…)
(pat, pat, pat…) (pat…)
She looks over to him longingly, but he doesn’t know. He keeps on walking. He is thinking of how afraid he was—how skin could break love. But he stops thinking of it. His heart has a new purpose, its very own chance to love, and the sunset could not seem any more beautiful to him. She has never seen such a beautiful sunset either.