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- [8CC May-June Challenge Finalist]
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Atlas had never experienced love until Jude walked into his life. She became his first true friend, and ultimately, his everything. Though Atlas was trapped in h...
"Jude, you seriously need to start talking to him. It's been a week already, and everyone has already started their term assignments," Emma chimed, her voice barely audible over the clatter of trays and excited chatter.
I sighed, taking a sip from the open carton of cafeteria chocolate milk. She was right, of course. Avoiding the situation wasn't going to make it any easier. I knew I should talk to him, but the idea felt like facing a daunting challenge I wasn't prepared for.
"Cheer up, Jude. Cupid always has his timing when shooting his arrows. I'm sure yours will come around too," Maya laughed, trying to lighten the mood. Emma joined in, but I shot them both a half-hearted glare as I made my way to the cafeteria garbage bin. That's when I collided with someone's chest.
Please don't be Atlas.
Please don't be Atlas.
Please don't be Atlas.
I looked up, bracing myself for an awkward encounter, but to my surprise, it wasn't Atlas. It was a familiar face from my history class, Sarah, who smiled kindly at me. Relief washed over me, momentarily erasing the knot of tension in my stomach.
"Sorry about that," I apologized, feeling relieved but also a bit embarrassed.
"No worries," Sarah replied with a friendly grin. "You okay?".
I chuckled, a little shakily. "Just... lost in thought, I guess."
Taking a chance, I glanced over at the back table, where my eyes met Atlas's across the crowded cafeteria. He was there, just as I expected, hunched over a worn notebook, a familiar pen dancing across the page. He was always drawing or writing, even when the rest of the world seemed to fade away. I wondered what he wrote about. I wondered what he drew.
Just as I was about to turn away, a beat of silence stretched between us. I stole another peek at Atlas, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Then, something unexpected happened.
He lifted his head, his gaze meeting mine directly across the cafeteria. For that suspended moment, a myriad of emotions danced across his features – perhaps amusement, or surprise – before a subtle smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Swiftly, he returned his attention to his notebook. Then, the flicker of emotion on his face vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual stoic expression as he returned his gaze to his notebook.
____________________
The insistent clang of the bell sliced through the hallway chatter. It was a sharp contrast to the soft clinking of silverware moments ago. The cafeteria transformed into a blur of retreating students and clattering trays. The low rumble that vibrated through the floor wasn't an earthquake, just the lunch break ending. With a sigh, I pushed my now lukewarm chocolate milk aside, the sweetness no longer appealing.
Okay, Jude, you can do this.
Just talk to him.
How are you going to do this assignment with Atlas, if you can't even look him straight in the eyes?
Especially when the assignment is a partner analysis of Fitzgerald's depiction of moral decay?
Just start by asking him if he's starting reading "The Great Gatsby" yet.
"Hey Atlas," I ventured, my voice cracking slightly with nerves. He sat there, his expression unreadable – a familiar stoicism that could mask amusement, annoyance, or complete disinterest. I swallowed hard, trying to push through the awkwardness.
"Why did the scarecrow win an award?" I blurted out, the question tumbling from my lips faster than I could control it.
A joke, really?
"......Because he was outstanding in his field," my voice echoed in the sudden quiet of the classroom. Papers rustled, conversations hushed, and all eyes seemed to turn towards us. A strangled laugh escaped my lips, a desperate attempt to mask the cringeworthy silence.
And there goes my reputation...
Atlas finally lifted his head, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. For a moment, I held my breath, waiting for his response.
"You suck at jokes," he remarked before turning back around.
He's right for once, unfortunately.
We didn't speak for the remainder of that class, but I was determined to turn this situation around.
____________________
The afternoon classes flew by in a blur of equations, historical dates, and the repetitive scratching of pencils on paper. All the while, a nervous energy thrummed beneath my skin. My stomach churned with nerves. I needed to break the ice. He was library at this time of day. I just had to catch him off guard.
I walked over and settled into the seat opposite him. The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty library windows, casting long shadows across the rows of books. Empty desks stretched out before me, a testament to the deserted hour. Rumour had it Atlas liked to spend some time here after school, and just as I had suspected, there he was, hunched over his notebook.
"Hey," I whispered, casting a nervous glance around the library.
Atlas didn't even flinch. The only response was the faint rustle of turning pages. My voice reverberated in the sudden silence, punctuated by the rhythmic tap of Mrs. Beth's pen at her librarian desk.
"Why did the chicken cross the road?" I exclaimed, the question escaping my lips faster than I could control it. I covered my mouth with my hands, overcome with embarrassment. Then, I turned around and quickly seizing one of the books already lying on the table, attempting to lose myself in its pages. Yet, despite my efforts, the derisive voices in my head resonated louder than even Gatsby's green light.
Atlas finally lifted his head, brow furrowed in curiosity. A hint of amusement glimmered in his eyes.
"Did you start reading The Great Gatsby yet?" I peeked over the top of the book, my voice barely a whisper. He lifted his head, his gaze catching mine. It was a laser sharp stare, dissecting not just me, but everything that had transpired between us in the past week.
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Then, with a deep breath that ruffled the pages further, he broke the tense quiet. He didn't answer my question directly, though. Shutting his notebook with a decisive snap, he reached into his bag and grabbed his worn copy of "The Great Gatsby." He then pushed it across the desk towards me.
Hesitantly, I reached for the book. It wasn't just the worn copy of the novel that held my attention. Atlas's neat handwriting filled the margins, highlighting key passages and scribbling insightful comments next to each chapter. He had annotated his entire book for me.
Maybe this was his way of finally breaking the ice?
