He is the eternal alien, the outsider

I wrote this for an english assignment on belonging but never handed it in...

'He is the eternal alien, the outsider.'

He falls against the wall in front of her, allowing a coy smile to break onto his face. Folding an arm across his chest, his fingers clutch at the side seam of his shirt as he grasps...for anything that will keep him here, with her. There is a lingering fog, at the edge of his mind, and he pinches at his side in attempts to banish it.

'Skye,' she says, smiling the same smile he's known for nine years. 'You're walking home?'

He gives a brisk nod, glancing once at his surroundings. People are still filtering out of classrooms, rushing and bumping to be free, home for the weekend.

He pushes off the wall, and she falls into step beside him. They move slowly, savouring their time together.

'I got an assignment today.' she grins, her eyes sparkling when she glances up at him through her tawny fringe. The green of her eyes matches that of her school uniform--pine with subtle hints of fern.

'Yeah?' he asks distractedly, trying to focus on the exact pitch of her voice, the speed and frequency of her steps beside him: anything to keep from receding into the other world, familiar in the worst way possible.

'Creative writing,' she continues, as they emerge from the building. 'It's on Belonging.'

He turns briefly to stare up at the painfully plain building, glad to be finished with it for another day. This is his personal hell. The place he hates most in the world.

Turning and smiling, he says, 'What are you going to write about?'
He always knows which questions to ask. Which questions she wants him to ask.

'You.' she says confidently, watching her feet as she walks and contradicting the assurance he hears in her voice.

Does she think we belong together? Is that what this is about?

His breath catches in his throat, and he feels his brow furrow. The other world is suddenly a lot closer. He can feel it, heavy in his step, hear it in his long exhalation. The outside world is suddenly a lot dimmer, details blurred and insignificant. He no longer inhabits his body, rather observes the scene from afar. He barely feels it when she lays a concerned hand on his shoulder, hardly hears when she says his name.

Do we belong together?

He doesn't like commitment. Avoids it where possible. But for her?

He is a middle aged man, sitting down to dinner with his two children: Violet, twelve; and Pieter, seven. She sits down opposite him, smiling the way only a mother can and catching his eye across the table.

In Skye's mind, it has already happened. And that terrifies him.

'Why...Why me?' he asks slowly.

'I don't know.' she says, with a certain conviction. She smiles smugly to herself.

He frowns, another feeling creeping up on him like a mugger in a back alley. He feels it, manipulating his body language, altering the tone in his voice until he's another person entirely. 'Yes you do. You're thinking about us.'

He curls his fingers in the collar of her shirt and pulls her closer, growling in her ear. 'Well, don't. Forget your fantasies, Dylan, because it's never going to happen. I don't need you and I don't want you.'

When he lets go of her, she falls onto the pavement. She is completely numb, all feeling from her body gone, despite the speed at which her heart is beating. Her eyes are empty, much like his own. The pine has faded to a dreary grey-green, only a reminder of the vibrant shade it reflected not five minutes ago. Her indifference is somehow worse than being screamed at. The absence of emotion is startling, and for Dylan, extremely unusual. He always knows exactly what to say to her. Exactly what she will react to.

And he wants to walk away, but he is anchored to this spot, in front of her.

She still hasn't moved, palms still flat on the concrete behind her where she braced herself. A foot bent underneath her.

A laugh rings out somewhere behind them, and Skye spins automatically. Two girls are following the same worn path they had, approaching slowly.

When he turns, Dylan is standing up. She brushes her grazed palms on her skirt. Without looking at Skye, she walks past him.

His anger is now replaced by a new emotion. He feels it, soaring through his veins and eating him from the inside out. Tears sting his eyes, but it is too late to make a difference. His shoulders droop, a familiar heaviness returning to his limbs.

'Dylan,' he calls out, as she gets smaller.

He knows by the way she stiffens that she hears him. But she doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t call after her again.