Naïve country bumpkin, check.
As Ilse took a deep breath, her chest rising, the door suddenly opened, and she came face to face with someone entirely unexpected.
“I’M JUST A BOY, STANDINGin front of a girl...” He broke off when she started to laugh.
“I’m sorry, but am I really supposed to take this seriously?” She shook her head, and soft dark locks spilled down her shoulders, laid bare by the wide neckline of her floral blouse.
Behind her, the late afternoon sun showered the classroom with fading golden rays, and maybe it was his imagination, or maybe it was because he had always thought she was too beautiful and nice to be real—-
It seemed to him that all those rays were drawn to her like they knew she was the kind of girl destined to be worshipped.
“You’re doing it again,” she suddenly sighed.
“Huh?”
“Staring at me like I’m a freak.”
He quickly shook his head, appalled. “It’s not like that at all.” He tried to search his mind for the right word, but words had never been his thing, and it was his turn to sigh in frustration.
“Don’t have the right word again?” she teased.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead, laugh at me. I know I’m the typical brainless jock in your eyes—-”
“Of course not,” she protested with exaggerated dismay.
He made a face.
She grinned. “Sorry, sorry, that’s the last time I’m teasing you. I promise.” She stood up and reached for her bag. “It’s getting late though. Maybe we can continue with...” She paused self-consciously. “Anyway, let’s just talk tomorrow...if you still want to.”
I want to, he thought.
Actually, he wanted her, period.
But every time he attempted to tell her, the words would fail him.
He watched her walk away, and a terrifying, painfully lonely sense of déjà vu struck him.
One day—-
One day, she would walk away from him, and it would be his fault.
One day—-
She suddenly stopped when she reached the doorway, and he held his breath without even knowing why.
She slowly turned towards him. “Tell me.”
His eyes widened.
“Y-you can tell me anything, and I’ll listen.”
Ah.
His mind whirled, his heart galloped, and his throat convulsed.
The word he wanted to say lingered at the tip of his tongue, stubbornly refusing to be revealed. He wanted to tell her that she reminded him of an angel—-
“Issac?”
