He isn’t here.
In desperation, I check the counter and the rest of the tables, though I know that if the redhead has already left, chances are, so has he.
I stumble to the seat nearest to me and slump onto it, dropping my head into my hands as painful throbbing consumes me. The storm of emotion I feel in no way aligns with the scale of the event. Even now, in the thick of it, I’m aware of that. I’m aware that I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me. I’m aware that what I’m doing is wrong, and more than that, I’m aware that it doesn’t make any sense, no matter how I look at it.
None of that means a thing to my heart.
It spasms. Physically spasms as I frantically begin calculating when and where I’ll see him next. It won’t be today. Probably not even tomorrow. He only has one class tomorrow, and that’s business admin. It’s on a different campus. I can’t get there and back on a break, no matter how fast I run, and I can’t drive there because even though it’s only a ten-minute drive, parking is a fucking nightmare in this place, and if I move my car, I won’t be able to find another spot anywhere near student services when I get back.
This is a sign,I tell myself.A sign this has gone too far. A sign that you need to stop.
My breathing slows gradually, but the spasm in my chest persists. I cross my arms on the table in front of me and rest my forehead on them, closing my eyes and exhaling slowly to releasesome of the inexplicable contagion that’s taken possession of me. I open them again, turning my head to the side so I can breathe better, and groan aloud when I realize I don’t have my wallet or phone with me.
Goddamn it. I’m such a mess. I can’t even buy myself a fucking snack. This has to stop. I need to get my shit together. Fast.
Something catches my eye. A movement in my peripheral vision. Something khaki-green drops against the wall behind me.
A backpack.
A backpack with a keychain attached to one of the zippers. Wooden beads and a handmade tassel.
I know that keychain, and I know that bag.
It’s his.
His.
The redhead made the keychain for him. I know she did. I was there when she gave it to him. He smiled and thanked her like it was the first thing he’d ever been given. The first, most precious gift any human being had ever received.
Oh Jesus.
He’s here.
Behind me.
Close.
Two, maybe three paces behind me.
Every hair on my body stands on end. I can’t see him, but I can feel him. His body heat disrupts the air behind me.
It’s the closest I’ve ever been to him.
Anxiety rips through me like wildfire. A vivid, vibrant flame. A flame that exists both outside and inside of me. A flame with a pulse and a personality all its own.
I keep my head down as I try to work out what I should do. My mind races with options, but they’re all largely irrelevantas I’m paralyzed from the legs down. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I stay there, immobile, head on my arms, eyes trained on his bag, until a big freckled hand reaches down and lifts the backpack, moving it from view.
I don’t move when the backpack disappears, and I don’t move when the air around me returns to something less stagnant and more normal. I wait until I hear the door behind me opening and closing, and for good measure, I don’t move for a full minute after that.
When I’m positive beyond any doubt that he’s gone, I lift my head. Gingerly. Like a chick emerging from the safety of an egg, or a man in a warzone, raising his head after a blast. I look around to check whether anyone is watching me, but I’m met by nothing but the bored, glazed faces of people plugged in to their phones.
When I’m able to stand, I do so and turn around to see what he was doing.
There’s a noticeboard behind me. A large corkboard with flyers and notices pinned on it. A discordance of colored paper. Some overlapping. Some professionally printed.
One stands out like a beacon.
White paper. Black ink.
