You see her sitting quietly in the corner of the room reading her book. My, how lovely. How nice she is to you, the introvert, the kid who stays in the back of the room and answers questions, never taking time to make small talk. And no one makes small talk with you, either. Except for her. Each day when you see one another, she comes to you, talks to you about the news, about history, about her book. You listen patiently, not sure what to say, nodding along to what she has to share. Just listening to her speak is enough to make you happy. Parts of you want to reach out, to take her in your arms and never let go. To embrace her tender frame and to make her happy, there is nothing more you could ask her. However, she does wouldn't like that. She would just as soon go back to her book. That’s okay, though. No matter what, you won’t stop admiring her, respecting her, loathing her. She is your light, and without it, how are you to see? She is all you see. You see her car parked neatly in the crowded parking lot, waiting for her to walk by you so you can once again see her. See her reading her book.

Once she texted you. Help on math homework. You know a thing or two about math, and help her best you can. You feel good about yourself. Maybe she respects you, as well? But what are the chances, if any? What about her book? Probably just math. Oh, how you wish you could say how you felt and how you wish your words alone would be enough to persuade her. Spoken words hold no power in the face of the queen of hearts, however. What thick earbuds she must possess. How sad. Why is it, you wonder, that written words captivate her so? She continues reading her book. Whatever could it be?

Oh, how tiresome these nights have become.

The next day, in the midsts of the school hours, she walks quietly into class. Something is different this time. The classroom fills with busy students bustling with short stories of eventful weekends. Nothing new, nothing fun. The teachers raises her voice, telling us to settle down, and the kids quietly retreat back to their seats. Class continues, mediocrity insues. You do your work, and she does hers. But something is different now. What could it be? Has she recently switched auto insurers, or seen something strange on TV? She glances over at you. You quickly avert your eyes from her and back towards the board, on which the teacher is meticulously writing formulas. That hasn’t happened before. How strange. How different.

They go down rather smoothly with water, those little pills.

Lying in bed, you look attentively at the ceiling, making out patterns and shapes in the various blotches and holes amidst the worn-out room. What can you invision? A book, perhaps. Her book, perhaps. It’s too cloudy to see. You turn on to your side. It’s time to awaken once again. As you close your eyes, darkness confronts you, and you drift off.

I wonder what she’s reading?