Two Years

Lawrence Chapter 1

The air changed when she walked in. Almost like I could feel her presence. One look at her beautiful brown hair and my heart stopped. That's all it took. Because it was her.

Two years, and four-hundred miles later.

She walked into the classroom slightly winded, brightening her surroundings with that beautiful smile and soft eyes.

Perfect.

Just like before, her smile took my breath away, and with it, my sanity. Glancing around her, she focused where I sat, staring at me for split second—too fast to be obvious, but enough time for me to notice the pause. My breath hitched, my palms itched. Just the thought of her this close to me had me heaving. Taking deep breaths to calm my racing heart, hoping no one else noticed—and especially desperate she didn't notice—I tried to calm my burning nerves, my bursting heart, to look like she didn't matter, like she was just another girl in the room full of girls.

She could be a doppelgänger. That thought helped. I'd run into one or two girls with the same hair before, or the same smile, or the same eyes, moles, teeth, skin, but ever quite it. Never quite her.

Yet here she was. It was her. The cool factor would be gone if she saw my reaction, so no matter how hard it was, I had to do it—had to pretend she didn't matter to me. She was coming, getting closer and closer yet—my heart beating faster and faster. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thumpthumpthump. I stared at her because I didn't want her to disappear, but also because I couldn't look away. I was hypnotized, cursed. There was no way I could look away from her. Just like two years ago, I was hooked. I wanted to touch her, to make sure she was real.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, her voice sweet, and gentle as I remembered. It was her. No doppelgänger, no illusion, no mirage. Big chocolate brown eyes locked on mine, and I swear my thoughts stuttered. I froze, trying my best to freeze the moment, but only freezing myself. I don't think I answered because she laughed—a private, soft laugh—and held her book tighter against her chest.

I wanted to save the memory for later, like I had millions of times before, but I couldn't. She wasn't a mirage, she was real, and time was real. It was my undoing because I wanted to admire her forever. Before she could leave, I mustered enough breath to tell her it wasn't. It wasn't taken. She could take it if she wanted to. And I really hoped she would. Every cell in my body hoped she would. Her eyes softened and her smile widened, and I was suddenly back two years ago when she used to sit in front of me.

It really hadn't been much different, the way it happened before. I'd been sitting in class, bored, drawing on my notebook. Black Flag. That's all I ever drew. My favorite band and their logo. I didn't have anything else I loved more, but I hadn't known I could love harder.

I hadn't known I could love more.

I hadn't known what love really was.

I was nineteen and a freshman in college, and frankly, I was a loner. So I pretended to be too busy to talk. Too busy to meet anyone. Too busy to meet her.

She'd walked in the much smaller classroom that first day, I'd looked up to see her, and that was it for me. My heart had stopped that day, and hadn't beat again until now—until I saw her again. She looked different then, wearing bright blue fishnets, a short denim skirt, a white tank top, and old combat boots, but the air around her was the same. It felt the same as it did now—strange yet light. Seeing her made me honest with myself for the first time in what seemed a lifetime ago.

I felt it, my heartbeat. It returned.

I fell in love that day, two years ago.

Four hundred miles away.

I fell in love with her.

Fell in love with her blue fishnets, and her sweet scent, and her kind smile. I fell in love with her eyes, and the curve of her lashes, and the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. I fell in love with her—even if she didn't know it. Even if she would never know.

I had fallen in love, but I had also died that last day I saw her, and that, too, she would never know. But I did. And now, I felt the difference between alive and dead. Because I'd been dead these two years, and now my heartbeat was back.

I fell in love once.

Two years, and four-hundred miles ago. A lifetime ago, really. But I did it. I'd fallen in love. If I thought I knew what being alive felt like, I'd be lying. If I thought I knew what love was like, I'd be delusional. Because it all paled before her.

I was trying hard not to stare at her now. Her soft smile eluded me, her brown eyes ignored me, her glossy hair swayed away from me.

And yet.

She glanced at me, just a fast moment, and I knew she could tell. It was impossible to look away from her. The look in my eyes was probably stupid, lost, forlorn, enchanted. I'd spent countless nights remembering everything about her. The soft curve of her upper lip, the tiny scar on her chin, the mole on her shoulder, the curl of her lashes, the brightness in her eyes, the softness of her hair. And that soft smile she always wore. It was imbedded in me. The light that surrounded her was imbedded in me. It lit the darkness of my soul.

If I hadn't known I'd been in love with her this whole time, I knew now.

Her fingers softly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and she glimpsed at me from the corner of her big brown eyes. My heart danced, and I hoped my eyes could pass off as nothing more than normal, unassuming, forgettable—not the eyes of a man hopelessly, and desperately in love.

I wished she'd sat in front of me again. Staring at her had been easier then, subtle. Much more subtle. Sitting next to me, too close for subterfuge glances, she took out a notebook out of her oversized bag, and glimpsed at me for just a fraction of a second as she reached for her pen. She caught me staring, but she blushed.

It was beautiful.

I knew just how lucky I was she chose this seat so close—even if it was too close for comfort. Too close to eavesdrop on her, to memorize her like I was used to. Only now I was used to not seeing her, or feeling her, or smelling her, and so this closeness became a gift I would embrace.

"Hi," she said with a timid lift of her shoulder, and a rosy color in her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude." Her shoulders dropped and she righted herself, and with that little laugh that made me melt, she broke her nerves. But not mine. If anything, that laugh had me reeling. I stared because I didn't know she could ever be anything but kind, and soft, and lovely. "I'm Jade." She outstretched her hand. The soft sparkle of her eyes as I looked at her, straight on, rendered me speechless.

Trying not to look like a jerk, I forced myself to touch her, forced myself to un-paralyze.

Soft. That's how she felt. So very soft. I closed my eyes for a second, memorizing this moment, keeping the feeling of her with me. I would remember this along with everything else about her, even if it was all a secret. One big, lonely secret.

"Lawrence," I said. That's it. That's all I could say before my tongue tied, and I was rendered speechless.

"Nice to meet you, Lawrence."

Class started then, and I didn't say anything else to her. Ignoring what scared me was easy. Ignoring who scared me was easier. It was a long-tried, and true trait. And it was that familiar feeling, of wanting to run away, ignore, tune out everything and everyone that was at the forefront. I almost wished I hadn't seen her again—almost. Dreams would've done just fine, really. I knew just how well they worked. How satisfied I could be. But then I always woke up and my life resumed, and the dreams I had of her remained that—just dreams.

She didn't remember me, but I did, and maybe someday I would have the guts to finally talk to her. Not today, but someday.

 Someday.