it would be foolish to try and quench that thirst

like a theater opening before my eyes, blossomed the intemperate signs of young love, revealed in whispers and in little notes scribbled in school desks (“I heart you”, they said), as well as in secret signs and sentences full of sentiments said only in eyefuls and not-so-bating lashes.

I can see that she waits and waits, a heart so full of love it is capable of setting a room ablaze. and she waits and waits, consumed, for the boy is too young and too stupid (as stupid as young boys always are) and he falters, fails to notice, fails to reciprocate in intensity and desire.

but he tries, he is trying so hard to make sense of this word that is so not akin to his emotional smartness. love. so he tries, in his half tones voice, to say his immature thoughts from the heart. it is a moment of vertigo to both – the kindred youth finally falling into place.

so he touches the waiting hand she has patiently, casually, laid out on his desk. he rest his fingers atop of hers. she laces and unlaces, fingers tangled in a messy bundle. and she sighs, contended, when his fingers stealthily go lower, hidden from all the words eyes but mine, and caress her thigh.

they don’t know that I know, they don’t know that I see. and even if they knew I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. they are captured in the moment when they feel what they think is love, when their hearts are trapped in a matchbox, beating so loud it is up to their ears.

and she smiles, the sweet taste of sugar on the tip of her tongue, and moves her head to look at him in the eye, holding the most intense of gazes her age can muster. her hair flows like a cascade of red sun upon her face, and she laughs a little laugh, earning a bad look from the professor – who is so caught up in science and numbers and signs of plus and minus that cannot see the scene that only I and them can see.

and her laugh is a little nervous, a little self-conscious about the intensity and tone: and there she shows she is ready for the fall. but she is happy, she is Juliet and he is her Romeo, her pimply-faced, poorly rhyming Romeo who she so desperately wishes to hold, who she yearns to love.

she wishes and waits for his touch, and is rewarded subtly. she is as happy as a clam, as happy as she can be.

but little do they know. and this is not about dangers and vices, or desperation of broken hearts. little do they know –

– that ahead of this young couple, ahead of their young love – sitting two desks to the left two rows to the front, sits this young foe, trying so hard to hide her eyes. at first she does it out of jealously, for she cannot stand to watch. then it is rage as she cannot deal with her dumped emotions properly. and at last, it is shame for herself, for her lasting, wasted love who is now jarred, and that was spilled for someone who will never reciprocate as expected.

it is sweet and sour to watch, and painful when I’ve already read the play, when I already know the ending to that story. I just have to let it flow, let it unfold, for there is no use, to youngsters, for the old men’s warnings. we may only sit, all crinkled, in our chairs and wait for death to come, for life will keep on showing only for those who breath youth and are in love. their fateful end belongs to them and not us, and to them only.

God, oh God… the world is so full of people…

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