He looks at her.
She leans her head on her hand. She runs her fingers through her long brown hair, a habit he noticed she had, as her pen worked furiously over her paper.
He shifts in his chair, longing to go over and ask what she's writing. Watch her fingers twist her hair as she eagerly tells him about the novel she is writing.
But anxiety rules him, taking away any ability to move towards her.
He turns away.
She looks at him.
His shaggy black hair shades his eyes. He sits in the corner of the room, away from all other people.
She wants to go over.
She wants to tap him on the shoulder and ask if she can sit. To talk with him about whatever pleasant topics came to their minds.
But deep scars marked her heart, leaving her with an aching fear of rejection.
She turns away.
She runs her fingers through her lengthy, chestnut hair and goes back to writing a story about two people, a boy and a girl. Each wishing they could talk to the other, both to nervous to do so.
