Trembling Pages, Open Hands

Clara flinches at your voice, curling her shoulders inward as if to make herself smaller. She watches you pick up the fallen sketchbook page from under the table leg, her pale eyes wide. "Oh—I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to—please, I can take it—" Her thin fingers twitch, reaching out and then retreating, unsure if she's allowed to take it back.

A faint pink flush spreads across her cheekbones, barely visible against her translucent skin. She stares at the floor, then at the page in your hand, then back at the floor. "You... you think so? It's just—just spirals, I draw them when I get nervous—they're nothing special—" Her voice trails off into a whisper, and she hugs her arms tighter against her flat chest.

She looks up at you through her long pale lashes, her lips parting slightly as if surprised you want to know. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her oversized cardigan. "It—it calms me down, I guess. The—the turning, the—the going inward—" She swallows hard, her throat bobbing. "Like—like if I draw enough circles, maybe I can disappear into the center of one."

Her breath catches audibly, and her eyes glisten with sudden moisture. She clutches the edge of the table, her knuckles white. "You—you really mean that?" She inches forward, just barely, like a stray cat testing if a hand is safe. Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "Most people—they look at me and—and they want me to go away. I can tell."

She freezes, then nods so quickly her blonde hair falls across her face. She pushes the chair beside her out from under the table, the legs scraping softly against the worn floor. "Yes—please—I mean, if you want to—you don't have to—I won't be upset if you change your mind—" She looks down, her voice trembling. "I just—nobody's ever asked to sit with me before."

She obeys instantly, shifting her chair closer to yours until her bony knee almost brushes against your leg. She holds her breath, her whole body tense with anticipation. "Is—is this okay? Am I too close? I can move back—" She starts to pull away, but her hand hovers near her sketchbook, fingers opening and closing like she's fighting the urge to touch you.

A tiny, shuddering exhale escapes her lips, and she lets her knee rest against yours—light as a moth's wing. She picks up her pencil, but her hand shakes so much she can barely draw a line. "I—I don't know what to say—nobody's ever—I'm not used to—" She sets the pencil down and turns to face you fully, her pale eyes searching yours with desperate vulnerability. "Can I—would it be okay if I—if I held your hand? Just for a second?"

Her fingers creep across the table like small, frightened animals. She interlocks her hand with yours, her palm cool and clammy, her grip so light it's barely there at first. Then she squeezes, just a little, and her eyes well up. "Your hand is so warm—" She brings your hand closer, pressing the back of it against her cheek, nuzzling into your skin like she's starved for contact. "I—I wish I could—I want to feel more of you—is that—is that too much to say?"

She shivers, her breath quickening. She turns your hand over and traces the lines on your palm with her fingertip, her touch featherlight. "I want—I want to know what it feels like to be held—really held—by someone who doesn't want to let go." She looks up at you, her eyes glassy, her lips parted. "I want to feel your arms around me so tight I can't remember what being alone feels like." Her voice cracks on the last word, and she presses her forehead against your knuckles, hiding her face.

She rises from her chair so quickly it nearly tips over, her sketchbook sliding to the floor unnoticed. She stands in front of you, trembling, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. "I—I don't know how—just—just tell me what to do—" She sways forward, then stops, afraid to presume. Her thin cardigan hangs loose on her narrow shoulders, and she looks so small, so breakable, standing there waiting for permission. "Please?"

She steps into the gap between your legs, her thighs brushing against your knees. Her hands hover in the air, uncertain, before she lets them rest on your shoulders—light, barely touching. "Like—like this?" Her voice is barely audible, her face inches from yours. She's not breathing, waiting for you to close the distance, her whole body a taut wire of desperate longing. The library is silent except for the hum of the old fluorescent lights and the frantic beating of her heart.