Now
I finally step out of my English Lit class.
Two hours.
Two long hours.
The kind of lecture where masterpieces get dissected like cold corpses on a table.
I love literature. Really.
Just… not like that.
Not when they talk about Heathcliff and Catherine using narrative structures and rhetorical devices —
as if they weren't just two messed-up souls madly in love, destroying each other in the process.
— They really said Jane Austen was a "subtle writer." Subtle? Jane? Seriously?!
Whatever.
I prefer when you feel. When you argue. When you wonder if Romeo and Juliet was actually love…
or just two broken teenagers — too young, too lost.
I'm a romantic.
Not naïve. Just… intense.
I walk through the courtyard, bag slung over my shoulder, earbuds in — but no music.
Just me. My thoughts.
And that weird little tightness in my chest.
He's probably waiting.
At least… I hope he is.
Mike.
It's not defined. Not official.
But not nothing either.
He's there. Sitting alone.
Earbuds in. Bag beside him.
And right as I get close —
his eyes find mine.
He smiles.
And that smile…
It cracks something in me.
Because it fixes me way too easily.
— I'm not late, right?
I shout as I approach.
— You're here. That's what matters,
he says, pulling out his earbuds.
He takes out two sandwiches. A small juice. And… strawberries?
— Strawberries?
— You're not the only one who remembers the important stuff.
I smile.
Sit down.
He looks at me.
I look away.
— You look beautiful today,
he says.
— Thanks…
I whisper.
We eat. We talk.
He imitates his professor with ridiculous hand gestures.
I laugh too hard.
He tells me about his scholarship, New York, basketball, the pressure.
And I listen. I really do.
But deep down, as he speaks...
Something pulls back inside me.
Something resists.
Everything looks perfect.
Feels perfect.
And still… there's this emptiness. A quiet void.
Like I'm here, but not really.
With him — but somewhere else.
— If you don't get that scholarship, I'm starting a petition.
— I want 500 signatures and a poster with my face on it.
— And you have to wear a t-shirt with my face during your return match.
— Deal. As long as you look madly in love in the photo.
We both laugh.
But through the laughter, a question creeps in…
Do I love him?
Or do I just love the idea of being loved?
Of not being alone?
Of filling a void he doesn't even know exists?
— You know you're kinda weird sometimes?
— Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment.
— It is one. That's what I love about you.
He says it so naturally.
No hesitation.
No second thought.
And inside me, a silent storm brews.
Too much noise in too little space.
The sun starts to dip.
He checks his watch.
— I've got a meeting with coach.
— See you the day after tomorrow?
— Same bench. Same time. Same strawberries?
— You better.
He brushes my shoulder.
Leaves.
And I stay.
Heart a little too tight.
Mind a little too tangled.
---
Same bench. Same time.
But this time — I get there first.
I sit down.
The wind's soft.
Everyone else is off studying.
It's just me. And my thoughts.
I see him walking toward me.
Still that smile.
Still that glint in his eyes.
Like he knows something I don't.
— Is it just me, or did you show up early?
— I'm tired of being told I'm always late, so… here I am.
— Impressive,
he says, tapping my shoulder.
He pulls out two coffees.
— No strawberries today, but I got you a vanilla latte.
— You remember that?
— I remember what matters.
And suddenly… my heart clenches.
Not out of love.
Out of contradiction.
He's doing everything right.
Looking at me like I've always wanted someone to.
Choosing me.
And still —
nothing inside me is really healing.
We toast.
We laugh.
He tells me his friend shouted my name during a game.
He talks. He lives.
And me?
I sit there, pretending to be whole.
— You're on the planning committee, right?
— Yeah. I run around, hang posters, eat pizza and pick the playlist.
— You're like the shadow president.
— Exactly. So watch what you say. I've got power.
He laughs. I laugh.
And yet...
I'm somewhere else.
He asks what I'm reading.
I mention Wuthering Heights.
He asks if I believe in obsessive love.
— I believe in intensity. Not dependency.
— So you think you can love someone with your whole soul… and still leave if it gets toxic?
— Yeah. Because loving yourself should always come first.
He stares at me. Too long.
I look away.
— Wanna take a walk?
— Sure.
We walk through the halls. Talk.
I tell him things I've never said before.
And he listens.
And I realize something.
Maybe we're together because we're both trying to fill a void.
But his emptiness and mine…
they don't fit together.
He wants to build.
I want to repair.
The sun begins to fall.
We return to the bench.
He looks at me.
Then says:
— I like what's happening between us.
— Me too. Even if I'm not sure what it is.
— That's okay. We don't need to name it.
He leans in.
Asks for permission.
I say yes.
He kisses me.
Soft.
Slow.
And in that kiss… I don't feel fire.
I feel tenderness.
Wanting.
Warmth.
But not the storm.
— You didn't have to wear your sweetest gloss,
he jokes.
— Just testing your willpower.
We laugh again.
But in my head, something lingers.
He's giving me everything.
But it's not what I'm looking for.
It's not his fault.
It's mine.
It's my emptiness.
My ache.
And he can't fix that.
We sit there.
Side by side.
The sun setting behind us.
Silence between us.
Something hovers.
Undefined.
Not lovers.
Not just friends.
A pause.
A soft promise.
But not a healing.
Not yet.