Silently Saying

Prologue

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She walked towards me, clutching a thin violet notebook in her arms, hugging it as if she were hugging her life at its end. I have seen her with that notebook a million times when she tried to approach me, but she had never given it to me. I know that she wants to give it to me—it is in her eyes: a longing for her feet to move one step towards me...

Her hair was arranged differently, beautiful layered waves of golden brown from the usual ponytail she uses to show her white face. Her eyes were a shining sliver, reflected by the sun. She slowly approached me down the hallway, her face of a determined carved stone of art. She looked like a version of Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom—carved in stone, forever beautiful.

Her hair, swept to the side, slid from the curve of her shoulder as she stood in front of me. The meaningless words of my friends drifted from one ear of mine to the other, then they slowly faded as my eyes focused on her. All thoughts were for her—only her. Always her.

As she looked from the object held by her delicate hands to me, she bit her lower lip, deciding. When she finally reached a few feet from me, she stopped.

The chaos around me was muffled as if I were wearing headphones. If a war was happening right now, I would not have noticed at all. I would not see the ugliness around me, but only the wonder I see. My eyes were drawn to her—the edges of her bronze hair to her slender arm. Little details of her I notice under the limited time we have together.

She was partially hidden in between people. It was a crowd of my school, separating us. The only thing separating us. My heart started to pace wildly, my pupils dilating. Only she had this control over me. Only her.
However, her face was as still as stone when she met my eyes. She looked up at me, then handed me the notebook. "This is...me. Um—enjoy."

Her voice was warped at the edge of her statement—nervous and uncertain of what to do. I wanted to lean in and kiss her, hug her, tell her that I feel what she feels. She is all I think about night and day. Everything depends on her.

The two years our lives had touched were the only ones I have ever lived and felt alive. My emotions were exercised to the limit, as well as my heart. I love her—I need to tell her that or I will explode.

I just stared at her grey eyes when she said: "Please read it."

And with those words, her hand slipped away from the notebook replaced by my hands. I felt a bit of her skin before she left, that small moment heated my cheeks like a fire.
I watched her go as swiftly as she left—like a bee visiting the flower. I am not the flower, she is. She is perfect—more than I thought could ever be possible.

Late in that day, I climbed on my bed, turned on my lamp light, and started to read Allison Harper's life.