She paused at one side of the hall and felt the world rush by, pushing and shoving like a ravenous fat man. She could feel him some 20 steps in front of her, to the right side of the hall, going into room 187.
In her mind, she imagined what it would be like if she tried to sneak up behind him and hug him hard, like she used to do, breathing in his wonderful, clean smell. "It's detergent," he used to say. "It's your soul leaking", she used to think, "and I love it".
English was pure torture; he had told her about this book, and the movie. The movie, of course, was not as good as the book. He took the time to highlight all the mistakes the movie producers had made; the flaws in the characters and why they did not seem real like they did in the book. But what she remembered most was how, after telling her all this and looking into her glassy eyes, coated with love and affection, he'd roll close to her in bed and give her little sweet kisses that made her giggle with happiness and tickles.
A sharp book edge brought her mind back to the classroom. She turned around slowly, covering the lower half of her face with her own book, and peered coldly at the boy who sat behind her. His arm was outstretched and the corner of his book was still pressed against her back. Unsmiling, he took his arm back and pretended to go back to reading as if nothing had happened, but he kept peering at her and remained curious and thoughtful at the twitching corners of her mouth.
The bell rang again and she tore off the page she'd been writing on. Before crumpling it and tossing it into the bin, she traced her finger along the lines and stars and many different styles in which she'd written his name countless times. She knew it was a waste of ink, but it was no more than she was a waste of love.
Her stomach rumbled not with hunger but with pain as she saw him come out of his class and walk past her with not more than a quick glance before his entrancing eyes returned their gaze to the floor. Arms crossed and self withdrawn, she walked into the bathroom and sat in the first stall.
A second bell rang and a few girls came into the bathroom, chatted loudly as they, presumably, fixed their make-up, and left. Head against the wall, she breathed in and took out her battered cat agenda. She opened it and a picture of them together in the park fell out. It had been a chilly autumn day, and they were both looking at the sky and just thinking about life. Strangely enough, she couldn't even remember who had taken the picture; all she knew is it had always made her feel warm inside, but now it only brought bitterness and a series of short, staggering gasps of sadness. She looked at it firmly, feeling the throat pain forming, followed by the blurry eyes. A drop fell on the photo, and she put it back into the agenda at a random page. With a furious sigh and a violently exaggerated swing of her arm, she tore a handful of toilet paper from the roll on the wall. She pressed it against her eyes and tried to clear her mind. She steadied herself and opened the agenda to a blank page. From the bottom of her backpack, she produced a purple pen, and she began to write slowly, pausing to think. Her writing became steadfast and hard. Her arm was tense and her wrist began to burn with pain as the writing quickened, but she didn't stop until the page was brimming with her irregular handwriting.
She re-read what she had written and put the agenda back into her backpack, from which she retrieved a red wooden box. Inside this box there was a plastic bag with squares of colored paper. She took out a shiny blue square and folded and folded, and soon the piece of paper became a crane.
Sighing, she put the small crane into the empty gap left in the wooden box, where it would be safe until she could put it with the rest back in the big trunk in her room.
"I know folding a million paper cranes could not grant me a wish, and origami won't win your love back," she whispered as she closed the box. "But if it did, I would fold paper cranes until I died just to hear you say you love me once more."
She thought this was corny and stupid, and it was a really selfish thing to ask, especially when there were millions of people out there dying because they didn't have the resources to stay alive. And here she was, feeling like it was the end of the world, asking the universe for compassion and empathy. But, even if it seemed pointless, it was her way of staying sane, the daily shot of cyanide that kept her on her feet and helped her deal with the pain caused by an invisible hole of despair that was eating up her heart.
Image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lenifuzhead/109886677/
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