Flowers bloomed when Monday came. By seventh period – the last of the day – my body was full to the brim with warmth. Conrad's eyes followed me as I walked to my seat and gave him a small smile.
"What are you so happy about?" He asked, a little curiously. I shook my head slightly and took out my books, setting them on the table.
"Nothing, really. Some days are just better than others." I told him. He looked thoughtful for a few moments, his lips quivering as he fumbled for his words.
"I guess that is a good reason to be happy. Especially if happy days are hard to come by." He eventually murmured.
I stared at him, I stared for a long time. I wondered if I was really so transparent. I wondered whether – this whole time – he'd secretly known my life as well as I did – without my words telling him so. Was it written on my face? Had I unknowingly given it away? Or did he know...because that was his life as well?
Today, I took another leap.
"You sound like you speak from experience," I told him softly.
Few, precious moments – moments that felt much more than moments – passed between us as he refused to respond. Never mind the fact that it wasn't my place; wasn't my job as someone who didn't even qualify as a friend – to ask him. While he refused to look at me – I felt the gears spinning his inquisitive mind. While everything was waiting on him to answer – I was the one under the spotlight, rather than him.
The words rushed from me like a waterfall, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You really don't have to tell me anything."
His own words spilled, spitefully and like molten lava, "Maybe I have."
My breath caught in my throat as he confirmed my theory. So many things instantly rushed to mind; so many things that I knew I could tell him. I wanted to tell him that he wasn't the only lost sailor during the storm; that I was in the same boat. That there were things we'd experienced that no kid should ever have to experience.
That I knew the way he himself had inevitably changed as a result of that.
He didn't let me.
He raised his hand, asking the teacher if he could go to the bathroom. His steps were heavy along the floor and his body tense as rock. I knew that he regretted what he told me. I knew he felt that I had pulled the rung out from under his feet; to take advantage of his vulnerability.
But all I saw was a blooming flower named Conrad Wilkins, who had just opened another petal to me.
* * *