Beep. Beep. Beep.
My eyes snap open: 4am. I reach over and press the button on the alarm, yawn and run a hand through my hair. Remaining under the blanket for a few moments, I cherish the last moments of warmth before forcing myself to get up, for fear of falling back asleep. I dress into my running clothes and stretch a little, debating whether or not to put a scarf on. I shake my head – I'll warm up as I run.
Leaving the building, I decide to go to the park down the road from the school. It's big, very open, and has a wooded area at the top of a hill behind an old mansion house. From what I can tell, it's some sort of restaurant now, but I guess that it used to belong to the owners of the land before it became a park. The sun hasn't yet risen, so the sky is shrouded in a deep blue and the moon still peeks from behind the clouds.
I can see my breath as I run, and my body is encased in a cold air but it slowly ebbs away with the exercise. Heading toward a collection of trees, I find a pond, separated from the path by a low iron fence that's battered with age. Despite the darkness, the moonlight reflects off the surface of the water, painting a silvery sheen across it; it's quite picturesque, almost like something taken out of a vintage movie. If it weren't for the subtle sound of rats scuttering around the bushes, I would have stayed longer.
I run up the hill toward the forested area, disturbing the sleeping silence of the trees by treading on the dry leaves. I can hear the faint beginnings of bird song, and it is this that causes me to remember to look at the time, and quickly sliding my phone out of my pocket, I see that it is 6am. Finding the sloping path back into the main park, I head homeward, the transition from grass to pavement hurting my ankles slightly. Returning to my flat, I quickly shower to rid myself of sweat, once again remaining in the steam-filled room for longer than necessary. It's safe to say that the bathroom is becoming one of my favourite places.
I change, grab my bag and head out the door once again, walking in the direction of the supermarket. To my annoyance, my mind returns to that word; Pete. I feel my eyebrows knot together in disapproval at my thoughts. I had run to clear my head of this, and now it's back? Shit. Did I seriously get that freezing for nothing?
'Why are you so desperate to meet him? He's just another transfer student,' I tell myself, soon arriving at the supermarket. Thankfully it's heated, and as the automatic doors slide open, I feel a rush of hot air hit my face. The store has only just opened as it is only a little past 7am, so there aren't many people. I take my time looking for something to get, wandering down the isles and vaguely pay attention to the songs echoing throughout the store from the radio until I arrive at a small bakery section. Looking at the selection, I can't help but smile to myself; on one shelf, there are crumpets, and on the shelf below, scones. What a glaring reminder of the country I'm in.
I end up choosing an iced cinnamon bun (I feel that seeing as I had just run, I should be allowed some sugar). As well as the bun, I find myself picking up pot of pasta, a bottle of water, and a container of mango pieces (to make up for the bun) and head to the self-check-out. Even though my English is far beyond the level of a shop exchange, I'd rather just do it myself to avoid unnecessary conversation.
Luckily, the self-check-out area is empty, so I walk up to one of the machines and start to scan my items as it thanks me for my custom in that overly posh, monotone voice. As I get my money out of my bag, I faintly notice someone slowly approach the machine next to me.
A few seconds later, I hear the clatter of coins on the laminate floor below me. Instinctively, I bend down, putting my hand out to pick them up. Another hand appears to do the same thing, and our finger tips brush; they're cold.
I pull my hand back, and look up.
My gaze meets deep brown eyes, framed by thick lashes. There's panic written all over them. I glance away, not looking at the rest of her. It would be rude to be caught staring. At least, I assume it's a 'her' – the eyes were so soft.
"Sorry," I mutter, noticing her hand hesitating to reach for the coins so I quickly scoop them up and hold my palm out.
"T-Thank you."
Oh. This is no girl.
I quite literally stand corrected as we both get up from the floor; he's definitely a boy, his nervous voice gave it away. But he's... very feminine? No, that's not it. Girlish? That's definitely not it either, he's too tall. Taller than me, even. Thin.
Gentle? Maybe that's the word I'm looking for.
He's not English, I can figure at least that much out on my own. He has brown hair, sort of like a chestnut kind of colour only more golden, somehow, and a very smooth face, pink lips... they look soft. He's pale too, kind of fragile looking.
Why am I observing him so closely?
"You're welcome," I reply, dragging myself from my thoughts as he takes the coins from me, the icy skin brushing against my palm. His fingers are soft, too.
I uncomfortably hover as I pay for my items, and quickly shove my food into my bag before ripping the receipt from the machine. I turn, and see him still scanning his purchases; a small bottle of iced coffee and a cereal bar. He scans them very methodically, I notice, as he carefully slides the bottle over the scanner and gently sets it into the bagging area (with two hands, for extra care). The corner of my mouth flicks up. It's oddly amusing, like it's rehearsed. He does the same with the cereal bar, however, after he sets it down with the bottle, the machine tells him there's an error. He stands there, clearly unsure of what to do.
This happened to me a few days ago, so without really thinking, I lean across him and pick it up, press 'back' on the screen and rescan it for him.
I turn my head toward him, about to reassure him that this apparently happens all the time, when I realise that our faces are extremely close and his eyes are completely focused on me. I pause for a moment. This is awkward. His cheeks are pink. I can feel his breath. Can I smell soap?
Is he cold or is he blushing? I can't tell. It's probably the cold. But the heating is on in here?
I step back, subconsciously reaching to hold my bag strap.
'Play it cool, Ae.'
"Oh, uh, the machines play up a lot. Don't worry about it," I tell him with a faint laugh. He clutches his food tightly. Am I making him nervous? Maybe I was too forward.
"Thank you for your help," he replies, quietly but politely. He bows his head slightly, too. What's the need for such formality? I wait for a moment, in case he says anything else. He doesn't, and I can tell he wants to go – he's shuffling from foot to foot as though preparing himself to run away.
"See you around," I say, trying to sound as cheerful as possible, flashing him a smile before turning on my heel and heading straight for the exit, my brows furrowed and my pace urgent.
'What the hell was that!? That was so awkward! Who even was he, he's like some kind of character in a book, with his perfect manner's and cute face.'
By now I have left the supermarket and am halfway down the road, rubbing the back of my head in utter confusion.
Wait, hang on.
Did I just call him cute?
Fuck.
What the actual fuck.
Oh my god, what is wrong with me? Am I ill? Is this damn weather getting to my head?
I grimace, my legs speeding up and carrying me swiftly to school like a distressed homing pigeon. Never in my life have I called another person 'cute'. Especially not... especially not a boy.
Well, I mean, to be fair, I did think he was a girl at first, I mean look at his eyes – no, actually don't do that, that's not a good idea. But he looked so soft! So... touchable. My God, I sound like Pond. I really have hit rock bottom. I don't even know his name.
My mind forces me to remember the proximity of our faces as I leaned over him, particularly his pink cheeks. Was he cold? His fingers were cold... so logic must surely indicate that – that what? He wasn't flustered? Does that mean that I was flustered!?
This is seems like the perfect situation in which to use the phrase 'bloody hell', which I feel like I've heard more of in this country than, 'hello'.
The fact that I am seriously freaking out over a boy that said about six words to me is ridiculous. I need to get a grip. I breath in determinedly, and raise my head up, forcing a calm expression onto my face. Without noticing the time or journey passing, I'm already in front of the school gates. It's almost 8 o'clock so I have half to wait until lessons start. I pass through reception, saying my usual 'good morning' to the receptionist before heading to the Common Room and flinging myself into one of the sofas. I rub my hands together. There's no heating on.
Then, a girl comes in. Jack pointed her out to me earlier in the week but I hadn't seen her since. He said only did so because she's Head Girl and he felt obliged to draw my attention to her as Head Boy. She's dressed all in black, has very dark makeup and looks a bit angry, but when she sees me, her face softens.
"You're here early."
I nod, sitting up.
"Did Sir tell you about the new transfer student?" She asks. Her accent is definitely more stereo-typically English than other people I have spoken to.
"Uh, he did, yes."
"Great. It must be good to know you'll have someone around you're kind of familiar with. I'd go and find him at about 8:15 – that's when he usually arrives." She points to the clock before turning toward the door. Suddenly she stops, as though she's just remembered something.
"I'm Tabitha by the way. Head Girl. If you need anything, don't be a stranger – oh, and ignore the rumours that I bite." She smiles before leaving.
I chuckle slightly. She seems nice enough. Although not as gentle as – no, stop thinking about him. You'll never see him again, anyway
I force myself to think differently.
'That boy, who I just met, was just an ordinary person trying to live his life. In all honesty, he looked like the kind of person who expects everything handed to him on a silver plate. Like one of those young masters, or whatever. Probably got confused because he's never had to do his own shopping before.'
I nod, pleased with what I'm saying to myself before pulling my maths book out of my bag, the little train of anti-boy-who-just-met-at-the-supermarket thoughts powering full steam ahead through my mind until I pretty much convince myself he was actually an alien.
Instead, supermarket boy is replaced by Pete, who seems a wonderful replacement over the panic (which I still don't quite understand) caused by the previous object of my thoughts. I look forward to meeting him, to be honest. I just hope we get along.
After a while of flicking through my book and trying my hardest to absorb at least some information, I realise it's time to go to the office. I gather my things, stand, and straighten my shirt. Despite the casual dress code, I still think it's more professional to at least wear a proper shirt, even if it's over jeans.
I walk out the Common Room and to the office door. I knock.
"Come in!"
I push the door open and enter the room. The teacher is facing me from behind his desk, his hands clasped in front of him as though in the middle of a serious discussion (although, considering the fluctuations in his attitude toward students, I doubt the severity of this conversation). There is a boy sat, his back facing me, in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks tall, and is dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. He seems thin. Wait...
The teacher looks to him.
"This is Ae," he gestures toward him. He swivels slowly in his seat, his shirt quietly rustling. I look at his face; the soft eyes, pink lips, chestnut hair.
"Ae, meet Pete."
It's the supermarket boy.