n. the surge of energy upon catching a glance from someone you like—a thrill that starts in your stomach, arcs up through your lungs and flashes into a spontaneous smile—which scrambles your ungrounded circuits and tempts you to chase that feeling with a kite and a key
"It's my duty as your best friend to prohibit you from looking at his direction," she says to me with an arm looped around my shoulders. "Geez, girl, don't even pretend I don't see the change in the tilt of your head when his tall ass self appears in the hallway. I mean I get it, he's tall and gloomy, clearly noticeable and shit but for some reason you're the only one who gives so much fucks towards him. you look like he's the only breath of fresh air you can inhale in this hellhole."
Rolling my eyes, I try to make the clusterfuck I call as my organizer which is in no way in an organized state a lot more decent. The semi-crumpled piece of paper glued in front of it with my schedule printed on doesn't seem to be so bad except for the ink stain adorning the left side.
"There's this thing in figures of speech in English called exaggeration and you're abusing it a lot right now" The ink stain seems to have gotten a lot inkier and it's so goddamn disgusting, should've just wrote it on a post-it note. "and first of all, I never tilt my head. I may be blind as a bat but my peripheral vision is flawless," I objected with just enough conviction. Can practically still know it's him from at least a good feet away. "And for a deathly class like calculus, I think I deserve to look at something that's less hideous than gibberish numbers on the board, right? He's not that great of a view but I'd take his tall ass self rather than death by numbers."
The hallway is half full now. Our next class is coincidentally in the room, his class is in right now. Calculus. The only class that hasn't gone out yet despite five minutes have already passed. Yep, death by numbers, alright. No one in our class are complaining. A math class that extends beyond the scheduled hours is fine as long as it's not ours. The teacher inside can go on and on as much as he likes and we'd be here enjoying the few sweet minutes of loud chit-chat with fellow classmates.
Seeing that I'm usually in the front lines ( I'm the first face every class sees as they exit the room, I'm sorry but they just gotta suck it up. My face conveys the message of 'i'm dead as fuck inside, please leave' vibe remarkably well) I survey the few people left inside. They exit in a constant stream, exuding exhaustion and relief at the same time. Dead as fuck inside as well. We students, can communicate with a single nod or glance and it's a bloody war battle, alright.
Preparing for a war (math class) consists of a simple list of things I have to complete.
Have a calculator. The only artillery weapon you'd need. The rest you can borrow anyway. Besides the answer and solutions, unless you copy it from the unfortunate seatmate who happens to also have no clue what the fuck is going on.
Pray to God. He gave me this brain. Blessed me with it and I pray He takes responsibility for my refusal to comprehend math and all its offspring.
And this. You never wear the correct uniform. Leaving in and out without a coat on. Regulation says even though it's hot as hell in the middle of the afternoon, your coat must be like your second layer of skin. A written offense every time you step out of the goddamn door. A backpack slung over your shoulder, clearly so light that I envy how he doesn't have to worry about the impending possibilities of osteoporosis. That is the epitome of no fucks given.
But this. It seems like my heart fell again on the floor and as you swiftly pass by with my eyes cast ahead of me, I lowered my head down. And there it is, pieces of my heart scattered below the clunks of your leather shoes. Taking it away from me. I'll scramble to take it all back again later. Gather it all up and glue it with some heavy duty adhesive.
It was always blank. How you'd glance at my direction and it was alright. That was enough. I don't mind if you don't recognize it was me. I'd always act like you didn't give me the willpower to push through. If you pulled through, then Jesus, so can I.
We both hated Math. Numbers were never kind to both of us.
During the weekend, it's amusing how I'd complain about cramming all the work I had to do at home and you're there accepting every curse word and a variety of comments ranging from 'i quit' and 'i give up'. You'd admit, you go to school without a single notebook on you and the cramming is all done in school after the teachers nags on you so much, you don't have a choice to do all the shit. You'd be there having to pass a half-assed essay or assignment. Wouldn't even know what subject it was for. Like a dummy, I wouldn't realize I have a smile on my face that's with some kind of fondness weaved into it. It's so stupidly you. God, it's so you.
And sometimes with a single 'you can do it' comment thrown in there after a stress-filled rant about the evils of homework. I knew I was a goner. Again.
You're awfully supportive of how obsessed I am with perfection when it comes to academics you don't even have a slightest clue of what's it about.
It's amusing how we're both in awe of each other's lack of fucks and obsession with fucks to give.
I'd finish everything off so fast. With all the effort I can give because apparently my most favorite little shit told me I can do it.
Just like now. You leave there unscathed by numbers and you probably just tuned everything out. Your lack of fucks to give fuels my obsession of fucks to give and it's a weird motivational thing my brain concocts. Is this how my brain protects me from all the math trauma?
Because it works.
It's enough seeing you pass by without a single acknowledgement, knowing when I get home you'd continue the conversation we left on from the night before right after one of us dozed off.
It's enough to not have the acknowledgement, knowing you'd somehow still tell me what happened inside the forsaken classroom that caused you to have an extra coat of armor on. That caused you to be at least a little bit happier because a little bit of your genius brain was exploited by your classmates.
It's enough to have no acknowledgement whatsoever, knowing it's me who you'd share a little bit of what goes on in your life.
Knowing that in the end of the day we both know each other.
Reality strikes when my seatmate equally as dumbfounded as I am, slowly lowers his head towards the table and hit his forehead against it in small continuous hits. What more can physical brain damage do when you're actually mentally damaged already?
No one seems to pay him some mind because we're all equally as out of it as he is, save for the few who stares at the board nodding as if doing so will make them understand. I'm one of those people. God willed me the ability to nod so nodding I shall do.
Thinking back to how later I'd go home and anticipate just a teeny bit on whether or not some type of conversation about how much we both dislike school in ways not that quite different will take place. Math class isn't all that bad.
I raise my hand to recite a correct answer. Fucking miracles do exist.
