It's strange how my brain, that I thought could only solve math and chemistry, can conjure up perfectly cliché fantasies about him and me.
But he deserves nothing less than perfection because he is flawless, in the most imperfect way.
I wonder why I am his locker neighbour and why he smiles at me at the lockers even if it's an attempt to be polite. I wonder how he sees me, what he thinks of me, of my glasses, and plain brown hair. Maybe he thinks I can't speak because nobody has ever heard me talk, except the teachers.
So maybe, when he'll smile at me tomorrow, I'll say Hi and he'll ask my name. Or maybe he'll say it first and we'll end up in a conversation about nothing in particular and everything in general, but the bell would ring, making him wish for some more time to talk to me and I'd wish he asked for my phone number before I leave.
Maybe I'll ask about his class which I know he shares with me and we end up walking together.
But that could never happen because he cannot be seen with me. The most popular guy with a who-is-she?
Maybe.
This word is so torturous. It makes you smile, and yet with the realisation of the pathetic imaginary world we are stuck in, it makes you sink back into reality. So here is where I stop dreaming. Here is where I remember who I am and who he is. Here is where I realise that I am stuck in a labyrinth of never ending uncertainties where these stupid dreamy fantasies collide with my world of science, books and practicality.
But maybe, I should try.
And maybe I should remove the maybe from this sentence and the previous sentence, and from my fantasies.
Or maybe I should just go to sleep.
Story