* ——— @skeptling / note.
the smell of old wood’s musk is prominent. the athenaeum is still as water, and among the myriad stacks of books, she can be found. bookshelf is considered, one paperback pulled from its place and flipped open with great care. therein lies yellowed pages and withered spines, one crudely - drawn doodle in the corner, abra skims for a moment --- the loose cord of her headphones dangle from jeans pocket, a dull murmured melody near the shell of her ear.
perhaps if she weren’t so aware of his presence alone, she wouldn’t have noticed his sudden approach. but he’s there, the same as the music, close to her, and a sweep of anxiety and impatience manifests ‘neath ribcage. [ is he worried about something? should you ask him? will you pry away the drapery to peer inside? ] with a sharp shake of her head, she unwinds herself from ‘round michael as he nears, despite the muse of curiosity. the opposite end of the aisle is where her classmate dithers, toying with a novella, not terribly interested but perhaps searching for something to do with the nervous jitters of his hands.
her selection of books is left at her table, empty of peers who have no interest in talking with her, much less taking the time to sit. alongside the spread of loose - leaf paper, her textbooks are strewn. and found close to the unzipped mouth of her backpack, there’s a note.
i need to talk to you.
ample regard pulls tense at the corners of her mouth, and she finds herself searching for him --- catching his eyes with hers from a shelf. trepidation deep - set to her very core, the daint line of her shoulders lift in reluctant agreeance before the piece of paper is crumbled and forced ‘tween the pages of her notebook.
