When you walk into the room you flick your gaze across the milling group, wondering, filtering, searching…searching for that green shirt you know he’s wearing that day. As soon as you spy that hint of emerald and crop of messy brown hair above it, your eyes drop to the floor for just a moment, then commence glancing at anything in the room that isn’t him.
Suddenly your footfalls seem too heavy, your heartbeat too loud, your thoughts too apparent, as you make your way across the tiled floor to your seat.
With your luck, he sits behind you. He’s already slid into his desk when you approach that area of the room. You take your seat gingerly, avoiding any possibility of being noticed too fully, but you are completely aware of his presence only two feet away.
He never says a word to you, but you are sure you can feel each heartbeat, hear each breath as it escapes from his lips. You are acutely aware of every shift he makes, clinging to even that cold connection between the touching of two desks.
Because you know that is the closest you will ever be to him.
© Vicky Morrison