She sat there sniffling, trying to keep the burning liquid in check, keep it from spilling past her eyelids and onto her face. Anything.
Her breaths came out rapid, choppy, as if something were caught in her throat, blocking air from getting in, blocking air from getting out.
Red flush warmed her cheeks and chest, and she pulled her sweater tighter, tighter, trying to bury herself in it. God, she was miserable.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure sit down across from her, sliding onto the creaky wooden chair with ease, backpack in hand, but she dared not look; she somehow knew that simply making eye contact with another human being would only have made the nightmarish situation real, and the tears would no longer be held back by the weak barricade of her lashes. Already, she could see dewy spots on the jet-black fringe.
"Hey," he said calmly, slowly, but with concern tingeing his voice. "Are you okay?"
She took a deep, shaky breath, feeling her head reel from the sharp intake of oxygen. Her vision blurred, spinning her eyes around the room.
"Yes," she answered meekly, her eyes centering on his face—dark hair, shockingly light, electric eyes. He was startlingly handsome, and she had never wished more for a person to go away and leave her alone. She felt like shit.
"Really?" He asked again, skepticism encroaching upon his tone. "You look upset. What's going on?"
Here he was, a perfect stranger, sitting across from her, dropping his bag on the floor and leaning towards her, giving her all his attention. She squeezed her eyes closed to keep back the immense flood she felt coming on, but the action only made the tears come faster, and she could feel them, plunk, plunk, plunk, on her cheeks, lips, table.
"Hey," he said more quietly, with compassion, as he reached forward, taking her hand in his. His eyes never wavered from her face, never showed a glimpse of disgust at her runny nose, bitten nails, streaming mascara. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She quickly shook her head 'no', whipping her wet cheeks with her hair in the process. She brought her free hand up to wipe herself clean.
"Okay," he said, nodding. "Well, if and when you want to talk about it, I'm all ears."
Trying her best to put on a brave smile, she nodded, sending silent messages of thanks across the table.
"Listen, I know we just met, but you look like you could use a pick me up," he smiled just then, giving her a look that was usually reserved for personal jokes, or as response to a charming, witty comment. She had made neither. "What do you say we go get some ice cream, my treat?"
But I don't even know your name, she thought, her eyebrows furrowing. Her brain told her to smile politely, thank him, and then run to the bathroom to do damage control. Her legs, however, jolted her upright, convincing her head to nod and smile.
Her mind spun, perhaps from standing up too quickly, perhaps from the exhilaration of being so careless and impulsive. Bright spots of light swirled around her head, and her brain felt weightless, empty.
When her eyes focused, she met his electric eyes, still filled with concern, still the eyes of a stranger.
"Hey," he said, fiddling with the strap of his backpack, which sat on his knee, "are you okay?"
She cleared her throat, rolling her eyes to pull back the tears, and put on a brave face, nodding enthusiastically and blurting: "Yeah, I'm fine."
He smiled politely, shrugged his shoulders, and stood.
"Just making sure," he said, turning and walking away.
As soon as he was out of sight, her smile melted away, and she looked down at her lap again, picking at her nails.
If only, she thought. If only.