AN:
I need to stop writing so much. It's becoming a serious problem.
Of Logical Processing and Adaptations
"Dez," she whines.
He lifts his blue eyes at her, innocently clueless. He doesn't get what he's done or why she's using that voice again, but he knows that he's definitely done something. Her sigh says so.
There's a brief moment of thought processing in his head, while she stares aggrievedly. He thinks of the time that he stole her book from her—or every time he did—and how disappointed she got. She wore the same weary eyes and those unintentional pouty lips, like a pug, or a sad pug. He never really understood from time to time why her disappointment was so great, but he eventually learned that there were a lot of things that bothered her. It was a little irritating, being expected to know when these things were annoying, but it grew on him, like an outrageously big clown shoe. He eventually grew adapt to her accommodations and most of the things she didn't really like—though sometimes he would forget or choose to do it anyway, not very often however—because being considerate wasn't so bad.
She huffs lightly to herself, her cheeks explosive before the air release. He stares on.
Now that he has figured out that she's disappointed, he needs to analyze why. This, as much as he has to do it, is a very challenging task. There are literally five questions he needs to ask himself, to narrow the selection down, before being able to respond. It's like a study guide worksheet, but much like a human study instead.
Anyway, the first one is: did he say anything to do it? To be fair, he is a little mean, but it's not intentional or to hurt anyone. He just really likes to talk…and eat. Dez really likes to eat—no! Focus! Stop thinking about pizza! Back to the question, had he said anything to do it? He tries to remember the conversation and comes with zero to nothing. He hadn't said anything mean, well, not like he'd think so. Therefore, he's left with the second question: did he do anything?
Had he?
There isn't really any space for him to do anything offensive in this narrow walkway. Taking a small drink of the water bottle in his hand, he contemplates if he could even do anything, but walk, at all.
Wait a minute! Dez slowly jolts his head away from the bottle in his hand. Is this hers?
He faces the plastic bottle, the missing cap and indents around the sides, shaking the small water in it. It doesn't take him long to realize what he's done wrong exactly, especially since there were many things he knew a lot of people hated. This, stealing people's water bottles and drinking it until empty, is one of them, especially for Ally. She hated when people drank her water, or stole her songbook—well not so much him anymore—or accidentally eats her fries—not unless you're…Dez—or sang nursery rhymes off key—unless it's him.
Thinking about it, most of these things didn't bother her so much if it was him.
Was she …adapting to him as well?
Dez stares at the girl below him, her wavy blond strands, and pout that curls at the ends (he's not sure if she was smiling or not). She, as well as him, grew to adapt to his behavior over time. He guesses it's a matter of consideration, like he was doing for her. So…if they were both considering each other, adapting to each other, and thinking about each other, was it…love?
"Uh, Ally," he softly starts.
She turns her big eyes at him; two brown coffee swirls meet his gaze. Her steps don't stop and her hands don't falter from their fiddling, but she keeps her eyes on him like she's being continually considerate. It bothers him a little, he finds it unsettling.
"Do you think we're in love?"
He guesses he asks the wrong question, because she responds negatively. Her eyes explode and her words are sputters, as she tries to come to terms with a response. He looks at her patiently, understanding that it is a little ridiculous. However, at some point, she stops trying to respond. She simply moves her eyes to the path ahead and takes a step frontwards. There's a crusade of thoughts in her head, like the indecency and ridiculousness that she's come across of. She loves Austin, Dez has other girls to preoccupy himself with—a certain frizzy hair friend—and it is just absurd. There is no sense in the question, and no sense in asking, but for some reason, there is also no sense in saying no.
She can't say no. It isn't logical to say so. I mean, how come they're walking together, with none of their friends? Trish and Austin are free; they have plenty of time to hang out with them. They aren't tied to responsibilities or attending musically related things. It's almost like they enjoy just being together, like it wasn't Austin that tied to them anymore. It was each other. Also, she had easily forgiven him for the water bottle—she actually doesn't know why though—an act she hates more than anything.
Love is a big word; in love are even bigger words together. She knows that her love, or whatever it is, is nothing compared to the one she has for Austin. However, she still carries something, alike to in love, for him.
It might not be in love with him, but it could be love.
"No," she finally speaks up, "I think we might love each other, you know, as friends."
Dez nods understandingly, clasping the bottle in his hand.
She looks at him for a second, or at least she swears she does, and realizes that there's so much more flooding in his blue eyes. They still have so much more friendship to uncover. She doesn't know if it'll take two more years or three months, but she knows that there's a lot to tread on…with him. Together.
"Oh, Ally," he presses a hand on her shoulder, lifting one side of his smile, "sorry for drinking your water. It's not…uh, considerate."
She smiles.
Yeah, maybe she does love him.