Unawares

The discovery of a crush is especially devastating when the individual that is the object of your love (or lust) happens to be a pretentious bastard.

During Theory of Knowledge I was idly munching on a chocolate cookie, contemplating the advent of the holidays, and the lovely weather. Our IB coordinator was discussing the upcoming SL tests in May, and I couldn’t have cared less, because I had a cookie, and the sun was shining. Tomorrow is the beginning of the Winter Holiday, and I get two weeks of unadulterated relaxation. Even studying will be in a relaxed atmosphere. I couldn’t help but notice that everyone else was as starry-eyed with the prospects of freedom as I. Save one person.

A boy I know was slumped in his desk— his mouth partially shielded by his hand. I cannot describe the fatigue that seemed to have settled over him. It was if one lone cloud of rain poured on him alone, and everyone else was exempt from its grey oppression.

Usually he is the epitome of character— he sits up ramrod straight and his hand flies up like a whip to remark snarkily on various subjects— adored by none, and vilified by all. I find myself in the latter category. He is pretentious, and vindictive, and bitter. He is as brilliant as they come. But the combination of such intelligence and such animosity leads to a explosive combination. His leadership of Mock Trial is the subject of many quiet, vituperate conversations, held in corners of dingy classrooms.

But now, he exuded grief like a waterfall— his shoulders were sloped— even the dark blue of his warm-up jacket seemed almost pitch black.

I can’t describe the absolute misery and discontent that grew in me, and I could practically feel my lower lip tremble. A stuffy feeling appeared in my nose that hadn’t been there before; my hands were suddenly cold, and the hollow crevices of my pockets could not warm them. I watched him for a moment— he was spoken to: but he answered as if in a daze or a stupor.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked after class, as he walked out of the room into the shining sun. His eyes were so dark I felt a rush, a shiver run down my spine and settle in my lower belly. "Hello?”

“I’m fine,” he replied hollowly.

“Do you want a cookie?” I offered, realising how childlike I appeared, in my sun-dress and low heels, my bangs sweeping across my face. I supposed then that I would always look childlike to him, barely reaching his strong shoulder, with small hands and feet, and slim wrists. And oh so naïve, thinking my cookie could save him from whatever depression had seized him.

He waved me off with a hand, and continued off toward his next class, the light streaming over him like an unwelcome blanket. I stood there, my cookie tin pressed against my stomach, like a lost bird, fluttering to and fro in indecisive agony.

When I was walking home, I saw him drive by, and he waved with one hand, the other on his mobile, driving by sheer will, I suppose. I felt my heart flutter, and I smiled involuntarily, a sort of sweet, melancholy slip of my lips.

Realisation is difficult— and I suppose that my heart will speed up next time I see him, and that a flush will appear across my round cheeks, and that I will want him so badly that I will stand pigeon-toed in his presence and stare at my feet. I wonder how I could have been so caught unaware, and by so wrong a person.

I suppose, for the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him the Obscure Object in this blog.