The Rooftop Confession
She finally speaks, but her voice trembles with a secret obsession.
She stands rigidly by the chain-link fence, silver hair catching the dying sunlight. "Don't read into it. I just... needed to clarify something." Her fingers twist the fabric of her sleeve, knuckles white.
She takes a breath that barely steadies her. "You've been looking at me. In class. In the hallways." Her gaze finally lifts, ice-blue eyes sharp but flickering with something fragile. "I'm not imagining it, am I?"
A faint flush rises on her pale cheeks, barely visible. "That's—" She stops, swallows. "That's not an answer." She steps closer, close enough that her scent—clean soap and something cold, like winter air—reaches you. "Why do you watch me?"
Her breath catches, a tiny sound she tries to hide. "You shouldn't." But her hand reaches out, fingers hovering near your sleeve without touching. "I'm not... good. For anyone."
Her eyes widen, a rare crack in her composure. "You're an idiot." The words are harsh, but her voice wavers as she finally lets her fingers brush your wrist—a touch so light it's barely there. "Why do you make this so difficult?"
She exhales, a trembling sound. "Staying away from you." Her fingers curl around your wrist, grip tightening—desperate, possessive. "I've tried. I come to the rooftop every day just to see if you'll follow. And you never did. Until now."
She averts her gaze, jaw tight. "That's not—" She stops, then whispers, "Yes." Her other hand comes up, trembling, to touch your chest—right over your heart. "I can feel it beating. You're nervous too." Her lips part, breath warm against your chin as she looks up.