Heartfelt Transitions [First Draft]

Seventh

"Really?" Ryan asked.

"Hundred percent man," Nate confirmed.

Fingers winded around the seat of my chair, I kept peering at the classroom door.

"What do you think, James?"

I hummed in response.

Ryan sighed. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am," I said.

"Do you even know what we are talking about?"

"Do you think she isn't coming today?" I rocked my chair back and forth. "She is always here by this time."

Nate scoffed. "He totally knows what we are talking about."

"I should just bring my bag here already," Ryan suggested. "She isn't coming–"

"Nooo," I said, slithering my front on the desk. "She never skips."

Nate patted Ryan in what was supposed to be a consoling matter.

The two kept talking and I didn't even give a single try to listen in their chatter, drowning in my thoughts of someone else. Someone who had totally not said something like 'Maybe not quite the same way, James' and had haunted me the entire night with that teasing whisper.

I was being driven crazy. And the one in the driver's seat was Adaira Sinclair.

She arrived just a nick of minute before the start of lecture, not looking at me and sinking into the seat beside me.

I grinned. "Good morning."

"Morning," she grumbled.

My grin vanished. Frowning, I took a long hard look at her.

She was in gray black 'clothes were made to cover the body' mindset clothing as always, black hair loosely tied. There were traces of a frown on her forehead, as she blankly gazed at her phone. The fifth chapter of 'ordinary life as a villainous' displayed on the screen, but her attention seemingly miles away from the story.

There were no remains of her from yesterday.

Before I could open my mouth to pester her for whatever she had on her mind, the teacher arrived. And the lecture began.

She wasn't focused.

It wasn't as if I hadn't seen her out of focus and disinterested in classes before. She always used to be like that, but she had been trying lately.

She played with the pen in her fingers, lips still downward and a frown not going away, the page opened in her notebook white as new.

"Rosemonde? Rosemonde."

I flinched to attention, straightening.

Mr. Thompson narrowed his eyes, making the area around them crinkle. "I don't believe the notes are written on your classmate's face."

A few laughs aired from the crowd as heat rose up my cheeks.

At least he was kind enough to not take the name.

Adaira's attention flickered to my direction for just a microsecond and was back to her white empty page.

Shaking myself out of my sea of thoughts, I focused on the blibber blabber of words leaving the teacher's mouth instead of my classmate's face.

I tried. I really did.

But as if set on a periodic motion with a defined time period, my eyes moved to her again. And again. And agai–