Nowadays, we can experience the world moving past us without ever having to be involved in it. We can sit behind screens and choose what we want to see. Books, movies, television, games—every avenue that enables us to find contentment in immersion sits ready for the taking. And if something we see displeases us? We can simply turn it off.
Nothing affects you if you live on the periphery. Close enough to believe you're a part of something, yet distant enough to keep you safe.
~{}~
There's a man I fancy who doesn't know I even exist.
Perhaps this same scenario has occurred to some of you before as well. I've heard of this happening to others, and I know that it's often used as a plot device in novels and other forms of entertainment. Every instance that I've heard where it's used, the characters describe this as a 'problem'.
A problem? I don't see what all the fuss is about. You're fortunate to have found someone worthy of your affection. He could look up at any moment and notice your interest. He could come sweep you off your feet, share himself with you and ask you to do the same. He could fall in love with what he finds.
Or, he may not. You could be the reason he smiles, for a while, but he's not obligated to love you. No one is. The chance that he will is minimal. The chance that he could hurt you, intentionally or otherwise? Far too high.
The man I fancy doesn't know I exist, and that's all right. I tell him everything I need to in my dreams.
~{}~
He eats lunch outside the campus radio station.
The student center where most people get their meals from is nearby. A sea of red tables spill out around it, as if the building cannot hold the hungry masses. The number of tables trickle down the farther out you go, until there are only a small scattering by the radio station. I was first lured here by the lack of people and the music. A couple of wall speakers are situated outside of the station, spewing out alternative rock mainly. It's nice to sit there in view of the clock tower and watch the occasional cat prowl by in search of scraps.
He goes there every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday around noon. I don't know about Tuesdays and Thursdays, as I have classes around that time, and I've yet to see him there during weekends. I suppose, like me, he has a bit of time to spare on the days I do see him. Half the time I see him eating by himself, always reading or jotting things in a notebook while he bobs his head to the music.
Though I can't tell exactly what he's doing or thinking, he tends to find a reason to grin. If his lips do not curve upward, then the smile is in his eyes. All the way from here I can see the sky in his eyes, so vast and wondrous. The glasses he wears don't detract from their allure in the slightest.
Even when studying, he seems to enjoy himself. I savor his joyful spirit by sitting beside him in my mind. There—and only there—I'll dare to reach out, run a hand through his short sandy locks, and turn that smile my way.
~{}~
Half the time I see him eating by himself. The other half of the time, he brings friends here. On those days, he ignores his books and talks to them. I'm close enough to listen.
They call him 'Al'. Amidst the flowing banter, I hang on to that name every time it is mentioned.
"Have you picked a paper topic for McCarthy's midterm, Al?"
"No, Al, you can't skip English class. And a cardboard cut-out of yourself won't fool the professor."
"Al, you're good at math, right? Teach me your ways before I fail."
"Pretty sure the dorms don't allow cats, but if you want to sneak them in, have at it, Al."
I listen carefully to their words just as I do his, all in an effort to glean more information about my heart's interest. I grow curious about them over time, these friends of his. What brought them together? And what does he see in them?
As I watch them eat and laugh, I wonder what he would see in me as well.
~{}~
After lunch on those certain days, Al goes to the Liberal Arts building.
I discovered this the second day I ever saw him. The first I spent sitting in dazed wonder at the sight of him. He never noticed, sat at one of those red tables as he was, focused on food and books. There wasn't anything special about those activities, though he somehow managed to look lovelier than anything I'd ever seen. He moved in an enigmatic rhythm. His eyes drank in the pages before him, curious and eager. And when he found something to smile about, it was like the sun shone down on him alone.
The suddenness of it overwhelmed me. I could hardly think, let alone move to follow him once he finished. When I realized he was gone, I sat there touching my chest and willing the startling ache to recede.
The feeling stubbornly remained. Therefore, I came back to those tables outside the radio station every chance I had. I lingered, even when the sky drizzled. I wouldn't be discouraged, not when I had to understand what had happened, to assure myself he wasn't a dream.
~{}~
Two days later, he returned. Along with him came the peculiar sensation from my chest again, only this time it fluttered throughout me, sending signals to awaken every nerve in my body. It shook me as much as it entranced me.
I did not know this man. He never spoke a word to me. So why did he utterly capture my attention? Why did he make the mundane come alive with every movement, every breath? What did he do to me, that something triggered inside of me and told me, "He's important"?
I couldn't fathom the reason. That's why I couldn't let him walk away again, at least without seeing where he went. I needed a few more moments, while this feeling pounded within me tangibly. I needed to find the reason why.
~{}~
That's what I told myself anyway. The alternative was too impossible. People don't fall in love at first sight.
To this day, I refuse to believe it. The closest I'll allow is infatuation. It can happen to anyone, given the right circumstances. My experience was only a little more . . . potent than most. And I've never experienced anything to that extent before. It was little wonder that I followed him that day.
He entered the building through the stairwell and up the stairs he went. I was careful trailing after him, lest he should spot me. My steps scarcely felt my own, like my limbs had been infused with all the airiness of a cloud. I floated more than walked up to the second floor where he exited.
The English department was located on this floor, as well as most of the foreign language classes. The classroom he ducked into must have been one of those subjects. I didn't stay long enough to find out. I probably could have, but I would have risked him seeing me. Reason told me that nothing serious would happen, if he noticed me, but I was beyond reason then.
When I heard his class begin, I doubled-back to the stairwell and made my way through the first floor hallways. The center of the Liberal Arts building has a small courtyard with stone benches, flowerbeds, and a wooden stage in the center where students perform on Shakespeare Day. It's surrounded on all four sides by the faded tan bricks of the building, but the open sky above makes the place seem larger than it really is. I frequent this place to read or find some peace of mind.
That day, I did not find peace. I hid there for hours replaying events, seeing his image time and time again behind my closed eyelids, and at the end I came to a terrifying conclusion.
I was in love.
~{}~
I will reiterate: People do not fall in love at first sight. In the initial confusion, it was easy to deceive myself in the midst of such an onslaught of sensation. Eventually I sorted through it and found it was nothing more than a natural attraction. In time, it grew to become this . . . this vicarious sense of love.
It was easier to accept after that. The way he invades my thoughts is no longer met with apprehension. They are nothing more than thoughts, my thoughts. I can control them and construct a safe place to keep them. The only indulgence outside of them I permit are those certain days I spend observing Al from afar. When he leaves to attend class, I do not follow him. I don't need to. He keeps me company in that safe place outside reality.
~{}~
There's a piano beside the radio station, sandwiched between an outdoor stairwell and a wall. If you walk by the stairwell without looking carefully, you can easily miss it. No one I've asked seems to know how the piano got there. It showed up at the beginning of this semester, an upright, dusty old thing. Some of the keys don't work so well, but overall it's still playable.
It won't stay playable for too long, left forgotten and exposed to the elements as it is. While I can, I've been making use of it. There are a number of other pianos I could use around campus, all in much better condition. I suppose I sympathize with this one. It's not its fault it was left here. And I don't know what it's been through, but it's managed to hold on this long. Its final days deserve to be filled with music.
"Hello old girl," I say as I stroke the ivory in greeting.
I come here to play on those days I see Al. After he leaves for class, I'm reluctant to return to my empty dorm room. I'd rather while my time away here, letting my fingers dance over the keys, lost in melodies and the thought that Al might hear my songs and come sit with me. I can see him, eyes closed, head nodding to the music. He'd be smiling too, always smiling.
I begin with a series of warm-up scales and chord runs that swiftly morph into improvisations. There is a hypnotic charm in letting your hands move instinctively. Your consciousness withdraws from what's around you. You forget where you are, that people are passing by and some slowing down to listen. Nothing matters, no thoughts are needed, and the notes spill out in any way they wish, fluidly shifting keys from sorrowful minor to inspiring major.
It could go on forever. I could let the music have its way until I found the next masterpiece, a concerto to move the world. But I end it before it's really begun and the last chord hangs bitter sweet in the air as an afterthought of what could have been.
"Wow, you're really good."
Reality shifts back into focus and I find I am not alone. The man I love is standing there, closer than we've ever been before. His hand holds the strap of his book bag hanging off one shoulder, and he wears an awed expression, like he's been a stranger to music his whole life. Those eyes shift like ocean waves from the piano to wash over me. To drown me.
This isn't a dream. We're meeting for the very first time.
I'm helpless to stop it.
Sometimes I forget I can write things besides humor. I just wanted to do something more serious and artistic, and I also wanted to practice a style in brevity. And I feel this is a topic that perhaps a lot of people can relate to? Arthur's character certainly struck me as being the sort. And I do mainly write stories in third-person, but I couldn't imagine this being anything other than first-person, and present tense at that. It allows the narrative to be closer, more personal and in the moment, ya know? Or that's what I'm going for at least.
Anyone interested in me continuing this? I do have some ideas for this AU, so if I get some good feedback I might be motivated to work on it. And can anyone guess what their majors are? (hint, they're not the typical one's you probably expect or see in most fics)
