#fromabookillneverwrite

The room was quiet with everyone at work on their study sheets, except the necessary ruffling of paper and pencil. I couldn't tell you what we were studying for, but even though I averted his gaze as best as I could, I could always tell which move was his. Heavy exhales of mild frustration before his large hands would unzip his bookbag and pull out the textbook. The light thud of the book's cover as its spine and edges hit the table about the same time. The fluttering pages underneath his long fingers until the right page turned up. Then he would run his pointer finger along paragraph after paragraph but then firmly, proudly poke the pinpoint spot on the page where his answer lie. He had found it!

Then the spine would creak as he shifted his weight away from on top of the book and over to his worksheet. This would happen a few times, what few times he didn't already know the answer. I could hear the brustling of his pencil against the thin sheet of paper underneath. Medium weight on the pencil, but not earnestly enough to break the tip or the table top. Steady pencil strokes, quickly jutting out each letter as quickly as possible. He never did like wasting time, whether he intended to use it for work or for play. None of his time was to be wasted if he could help it!

But for a moment, I heard him pause. His fingers' grasp whispered through his whispy, angelic mane. Combing through it like fine, steadily-moved sandpaper. The atmosphere filled with the scent of his soft-drink-laden breath with a sigh. The mellow citrus scent wandered just beneath my nose, beckoning for my attention.

While my eyes moved further up the table, moreso in his direction, I still refused to rest my sights on his relaxed, unblemished, goofy face. What if I were to be found out? He cleared his throat in earnest, sending a shiver down my spine. Had he noticed what attention I had been paying him this whole time? In my silence and down-drawn eyes, had I still been so obvious?

Still, his seemingly impatient finger tapped rhythmically against the wooden table, but why?

He cleared his throat again. So abruptly that you could tell it was intentional. For a lack of coughing afterward or taking a drink from the water bottle that sat at ease alongside his backpack, I could only conclude that he was trying to communicate. But who was it intended for? He had hardly noticed me all the way up until this point. As much as my heart thundered in my chest, I tried to calm myself down, rationalizing how it couldn't be my attention he wanted.

A classmate has offered him a cough drop but he wouldn't take it. He kindly brushes his friend's hand away to shortstop the exchange. I could hear the outside edge of his hand rub against the wooden table, coming back in toward himself. A stuttered tapping as he picks up his pencil. The tip of the graphite as it met with the noisy paper once again, almost making a ripping sound. He was pressing against it so hard, but how shaky it sounded! Was he nervous?

Another classman laughs, with a silent, airy snort through their nose. Fabric against fabric brushes against each other as shoulders nudge, but rather to the far side of the table. Low whispers travel as a mist on that same side. I believe I heard his name, but what does it matter?

Given more time, our shared studies in the library come to a close. The legs of our chairs grind roughly against the fine carpet, in some cases, erupting with long screeches until the jounrey outward has ended. Footsteps shuffle across the floor to the exit. Bookbag zippers come to a close, none of them in sync. But something about him.... He seems to be taking his time. All of his movements slower than the rest, but they somehow feel carefully measured.

Just as I start to get up from my seat, my heart almost freezes in my chest.

"Jasmine," he calls, "do you want to get some coffee with me in the cafeteria? I know it's late, but...."