I'm sitting at the computer and trying not to blush. My eyes which are forced to look ahead, want to glance to my left side, where a guy I have had a crush on since the beginning of college sits and works. My heart races as I think of him so close to me and I have to fight harder for my cheeks not to grow a powerful pink. I see from the corner of my eye him flick his hair from his eyes in the fashion I always adored. Then quickly bring my attention back to the screen as his eyes dart my way. It may be a paranoid crush, but I can’t help think he is staring at me like I am at him.
My knowledge of him before this point was lacking, and as a fact still is. Now, however, I know his name. Newt Thomas. My crush may be merely through looks at this point in time, but I would like to know so much more about him, my heart craves the contact and knowledge. The problem with that is I can’t give it, my confidence is lacking. I am in total belief he doesn’t like me, and that more then likely is how it will stay. Though I can’t help but study him in our close quarters. I watch him bite his nails as his face relaxes and concentration is brought to his screen. I slip off my jacket giving me a chance to get a full view of his body which is dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a deep dark red jumper with its sleeves rolled to the elbows. My view does not reach his feet though that has no matter.
My next goal is to try and get a better view of his face. I begin to play with my hair which is tied in a ponytail meaning my head slightly dips to the right giving my face focus on the left. I notice a pair of hazel eyes stand from a simplistic yet mesmerizing face. His broad chin is framed in dark brown stubble, which suits him a great deal, but also stands out from his lighter hair. Once more as I stare he glances at me and my head darts back to the screen in a red flush, I notice him smile as this happens and can’t help but feel he’s caught me in what I am doing.
Now paranoid thoughts start to enter my mind at a faster pace. The thoughts that make me blush more from the humiliation that could be possible. He could stand and announce to the room I am a stalker. He could tap my shoulder, but not mean to embarrass, at a volume everyone can hear state he is gay. He could point out the flaws I point out in myself each day and call me an array of hurtful names; “Fat. Spotty. Ugly. Freak. Weirdo.” The list goes on. He can, if he wanted to, make me feel like a lowlife. In my heart I know, however, he is not the type.
My back straightens as I watch him stand and realise an hour has passed. His knuckle presses against my desk as he reaches for his bag then relaxes as he stands and walks slowly away without a second glance. I stare at the spot he touched and see a small piece of paper lie there; it’s folded neatly in half. I reach for it and open it with shaking hands and find an eleven digit number lie on its surface. My cheek flushes again and a bright grin erupts onto my face.
I may not be so paranoid afterall.
