Here's one thing you should know about me before I begin.
I am a bookworm. An extreme bookworm. I am such a bookworm that Soul makes fun of me almost every day. And he should be used to it by now, anyway!
And so yesterday, like usual, I was immersed in the newest addition to my pile. It was almost scary how detached I was from the outside world. Crona, who was sitting next to me, had just become an inhuman smudge of pink in the corner of my eye, and I think she was starting to notice. She kept nudging me, and I kept saying "Just a minute, sorry, sorry," but honestly I really didn't mean it. I could see now how so many authors became socially awkward recluses; they were so involved with their own writing or the writing of others that they just didn't have time for humanity anymore. Maybe this was the beginning of my transformation into one of them.
So I barely noticed Soul when he came up to me. Like I said, just another gray blob in my sea of words. He said something along the lines of "What're you reading?", but he remained mostly unregistered by me.
Unregistered until I felt something warm taking my right hand, which was resting on the table.
As you might expect, I turned around pretty quickly, just quickly enough to see a hand-Soul's hand-slipping out of mine. "Oh, um, uh, sorry, I, uh, tripped on the, um, floor...you know," he muttered, looking away. His cheeks were tinted a lovely pink, but it was hot that day, and at the time I just assumed he'd gotten sunburned.
"It's okay," I responded, before returning to the fantastical utopia that was my book.
And now I'm sitting here, running that occurrence over and over in my mind. Was it really an accident, as he'd claimed, or was it a gesture of something more than friendship? After all, he was blushing and stuttering the whole way through, the poor thing.
If it was meant to show affection, I don't really want or need it. We are just friends, after all. Partners. I am his Meister, and he is my Death Scythe, and there is nothing more between us.
And yet, the thought of Soul thinking about me that way fills me with confusing, contradicting things. My chest tightens and my heart pounds. I grit my teeth and my face warms. My fists clench and my arms feel weak.
Could I possibly feel the same for him as he does for me? Could such a relationship ever work out?
I let out a sigh-a long, frustrated sigh-and walk home. I have to confront him about this.
