Forget Me Not

Little By Little

"So, you two were at a bookstore?" Sameera asked, tilting her head. I nodded at her, while she presumed, "that too, together?"

My pen stopped on the worksheet, "And is that a problem?"

"No, not really. But Oliver seems to have taken an interest in you," Sammy pointed out, "like, just now he had looked at you for the fifth time in a row." I rolled my eyes as she snorted, “I smell a love story here.”

“You stop smelling things and start concentrating on the slides or Mr Radacovic will concentrate on us.” But the seed of interest was already planted in my mind. Slowly from the corner of my eyes, I noticed Oliver turned to look at me. I didn't know whether to be happy or not, but somewhere deep inside me I swear something inside me was very pleased.

In the evening, I again set foot in that bookstore. Without my intention, my eyes travelled towards the table where Oliver and I had sat last evening. To my surprise, Oliver was already there and his eyes were directed at me. With a small nod, I walked up to him, “Hey.”

Oliver nodded, as he dragged his bag from a seat beside him. He was saving me a seat. I didn’t know why this small gesture touched my heart, and I smiled genuinely, “Thanks.” Oliver nodded again, as he flipped a page from a book he was holding. “So, what are you reading today?” Intrigued, I asked.

He slid the book towards me, “Rumi.” And as usual, I didn’t have any idea of who he was. Maybe seeing my baffled face he chuckled, “A Persian poet,” I looked at the backside of the book, where besides the poet’s name was written 1207-1273. “Oh my God! He is old.” Oliver smiled as he shook his head. 

The next hour went by in sheer silence. Oliver didn't speak a word neither did I initiate. He kept on reading the book, sometimes writing something on a writing pad. He was so consumed in that book, it was hard to believe this was the same man who was the centre of attention of his friends. He looked like he was in some entirely another world where no one could touch him.

I couldn’t hold back my curiosity, “Oliver, why do you pretend so much?”

His eyes snapped at me, “Excuse me?”

That’s when I realised how my question might have sounded to him. Flinching, I shook my head, “I mean, you are not what you pretend to be in front of your friends.”

Oliver sat back resting on the backseat of the chair, “And you can tell this how?”

“I have noticed - you put up a good show.”

“And you have noticed, why?”

“I don’t need to look at you with a microscope, you know,” I rolled my eyes, “you are practically everywhere. Boys love you, girls worship you, teachers respect you.” I sighed looking at him, “yet, somehow I feel you don’t like the attention you get. As if you would be anywhere but there.” When Oliver didn’t say a word, I continued, “You tap your feet, you rub your chin, then you bite your pinky nail as if,” 

And I stopped.

I was saying things that could easily mark me as a stalker. I could feel the blood rushing towards my neck and in no minute it would redden my cheeks. I had made a blunder - I shouldn’t have told him that I noticed him minutely. By then I could swear I was completely red out of embarrassment. “I,” I tried to control the situation, but Oliver raised one of his perfect brows. Looking at him, I could tell he found this situation quite funny. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to,”

“Stalk you?” He offered. Looking at my mortified face, he laughed, “It’s okay, Evette. I didn’t mind.” He looked down at his book and flipped a page, “And yes, I don’t like the attention I get. It makes me uneasy.”