strangers | newtmas

three

The rays of the sun shone through the blinds on my window, waking me up before my alarm had the chance to. I got up, stretching my arms then checking my phone, seeing no notifications awaiting me as usual. Although it was a Sunday, and I had no reason to not sleep in, I feel as if I'm wasting the day if I sleep away half of it, so I've always made an effort to wake up somewhat early on weekends, even though I usually have no plans set.

It had been two days now since I met Thomas. 

How odd for someone's first day at a new school to be on a Friday.

Today, devoid of any concrete plans, I decided to venture to the local bookstore, a haven of infinite stories that never failed to ignite my imagination. It stood within walking distance, affording me the luxury of time to wander and ponder the endless realms of literature. I never sought a specific book during these visits, preferring to discover what was waiting for me on those bookshelves when I got there.

Stepping through the entrance, I inhaled the familiar scent of aged paper and ink, feeling a surge of anticipation course through my veins. The world of possibilities awaited me, a million of untold tales calling for me. Little did I know that fate had prepared an unexpected twist to this leisurely outing.

Barely ten minutes into my time in the bookstore, a book tumbled from a shelf, crashing into my shoulder. Pain radiated through my body, overwhelming my senses for a second. Before I could fully grasp the situation, a voice I recognized all too well sliced through the air, laced with worry.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

Gathering my wits, I rose from my crouched position, my gaze descending to the shelf from which the book had fallen from.  And there, our eyes locked in an instant of recognition, stood Thomas.  

"Oh, hey," I began, momentarily forgetting the twinge of pain. "No worries, accidents happen." I chuckled softly, hoping to ease any distress he might feel, even though the book had left me slightly sore. Glancing down at the book that had fallen upon me moments before, I read its title—The Secret Lives of Colour.

Returning my focus to Thomas, I couldn't help but ask, "Are you an artist or something? Or did you accidentally drop a book about art on me?" 

He smiled and replied, "Actually, yeah. One of the reasons I was thrilled about moving here was the abundance of inspiration I hoped to find. New landscapes and scenes to capture on canvas are like gifts to me. You can never truly appreciate the beauty of a captivating landscape enough."

His words intrigued me. "You didn't strike me as an artist, though," I admitted, realizing the potential unintended rudeness of my remark. "Not in a negative way, of course," I quickly added, hoping he understood my meaning.

"Yeah, that's a common misconception," Thomas responded, a warm smile playing on his lips.

His smile captivated me, and our intense eye contact felt almost unnerving yet undeniably fascinating. I resisted the urge to look away, instead, studying the contours of his face—the crinkling of his eyes when he smiled, the faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, details that only revealed themselves through careful observation. I silently prayed that he couldn't hear the thoughts racing through my head, seeing as they were so loud in my mind.

As I stood there, caught in the intensity of our gaze, I couldn't help but feel an inexplicable connection to Thomas. There was something about him that piqued my curiosity, something that made me want to understand him better.

With a hint of surprise, I said, "Honestly, I really didn't see you as someone who would have such an artistic surprise, but I guess I was wrong." I say with a small laugh following after my words.

Thomas chuckled, a warm sound that resonated with his friendly nature. "Yeah, I guess I don't fit the stereotypical artist mold. But I've always found inspiration in the world around me." I guess I really don't know anything about Thomas. I never expected him to be someone who thought this way, if I'm being honest. 

His response intrigued me, and I found myself wanting to learn more about his perspective. "It's fascinating how you see the world through your creative lens. I'd love to see some of your artwork, if you'd be fine with showing me." I say, wanting to cringe at what I said, hoping he wouldn't think I'm weird for being so interested in his art.

Thomas's eyes lit up, a mix of enthusiasm and surprise. "Sure, I'd be happy to show you," he says, and it feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest, and I let out a small sigh of relief. "and we can grab some coffee if you'd like." he suggests. 

How cliche. Two people unexpectedly meet in a local bookstore and they get coffee to get to know one another better. Except this is platonic- right?

Nevertheless, the idea of spending more time with Thomas appealed to me, and I nodded in agreement. "That sounds great. Lead the way."

We left the bookstore behind and walked towards a nearby coffee shop, engaging in casual conversation along the way. Thomas shared his artistic vision and the inspiration he found in capturing moments on canvas.

As I listened, I couldn't help but feel drawn to him in an unexplainable way. There was something about his genuine passion and kind nature that resonated with me. I found myself wanting to know more, to unravel the mystery behind this newfound connection.

But as the afternoon unfolded and we continued our conversation, I couldn't ignore the inner turmoil brewing within me. I felt an unexplained confusion, unable to pinpoint the exact source of these unfamiliar feelings. I almost felt anxious around him, and I didnt understand why. 

This doesn't make sense. 

What is it about this boy that is so intriguing, drawing me in with every word?

Eventually, we had to part ways and go home, despite the fact that I did not want to, but felt comfort in the fact that I would see him tomorrow at school, that is if he chooses to sit with me again.

Maybe I finally have something to look forward to now.