he can tell that she's sad.
if you asked him why, though, he couldn't explain it. laina arrives to class on time, smiles like she normally does, is perfectly polite to all the teachers and still blushes, rose dusted prettily across her cheeks, like she always has. there is nothing - at all - different about her or the way she acts.
except - except there is.
there is something, a small something that makes him hesitate when he looks at her. her eyes, always a hint of gray in them, looks more like december skies than of baby blue peonies. her smile, maybe, not as quite as wide, not as quite as frequent. she wears sweaters now, a little bit longer than they used to be, covering her wrists and draping over her. and is he just imagining it or do her eyes drift down more often than they used to, fixated on her shoes when no one is looking?
her fingers grasping the edges of her books, slightly ruddy red. her skin, a little paler, her eyes a little duller, her sweaters a little longer. these thoughts haunt miguel from time to time, when he has enough of a breath that he can think about something other than school or drama or his failing grade in psych class.
he wants to ask her, of course, if there is anything different. he wants to know if there's anything wrong, or if it's just all in his head. but whenever he racks up the courage to ask, like flowers filling his throat, no words can come out. instead he lets her talk about school and drama and clubs, let's her complain about her dad and about kianna, because at least it is nice listening to her voice --
(even as she pulls her sweater sleeves down, hiding a curve of something dark against her wrist --)
and is better than thinking about the thought that haunts him still:
when has the last time he's heard laina laugh? really laugh?













