Kneeling down, he picked up
The lady's napkin off the ground -
Proof that he is kind
And a true gentleman.
reasoning.
Even though he was there, in the room, and even though she would have loved a conversation with him, still she did not go up to him. Instead, she found some other people with whom to speak. But she said very little, and probably heard even less, so distracted was she. Every few moments her gaze would look for him: there he was, chatting away to someone; and there he went now to get a cup of tea. He did not come up to her either, and she wondered if perhaps they had a similar reasoning to why they were staying apart: that it was a lot more pleasant to communicate privately, and there was no point having a short and superficial conversation now, when there would be the opportunity to speak honestly and deeply at some later date. Thus it was that she was neither offended nor disappointed by him, and she knew that likewise, her own behaviour had not troubled him in the slightest way. If he did indeed think like her, then she appreciated him all the more for it.
{unexpected appearance}
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, I just – I just missed you.”
He showed her in, a mixture of confusion and concern on his face.
“Take a seat here, if you like,” he said calmly. She nodded and obediently sat in the chair, and would not meet his eyes.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes please,” she said in a very small voice.
He left her to go to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with the hot drink, and placed it gently on a coffee table next to her. She wiped her nose with the back of her arm, before coughing and finally thanking him in that same small voice. He could tell she was trying not to cry.
“Has anything happened?” He ventured to ask, “you seem quite sad.”
This time she shook her head, and he thought he may have seen a tear or two roll down before being wiped away by a swift movement of her hand. Her head was still lowered, and her hair fell around it, almost shielding it from the sides. He took a seat on a couch nearby and waited quietly for her to speak. A minute or two passed by in silence, except for the regular ticking of a clock in the kitchen. She did not drink the tea; he observed its steam rising into the atmosphere.
“Nothing’s happened,” she said finally, “but sometimes, out of nowhere, I feel so sad …” her voice was beginning to quiver, and she took a breath before continuing, “and this sadness is always about you: I long to be near you, I long to speak to you, I long to see you – I just miss you so much – and I feel so sad …”
She bent her head even lower, covered her face with her hands and began to weep silently. All he could see was her shoulders rising and falling with each sob.
“Well,” he began, “I am here now. Are you feeling better?”
She sniffed and very timidly glanced up at him, mindful that she probably did not look her best right now.
“I feel … infinitely better,” she managed to say before breaking down into another round of sobs – but perhaps this time, it was of relief that she was crying.
{exchange}
As she rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairs, she spots him a few metres ahead, in a discussion with one, or two, or maybe even three persons (for she failed to notice them properly, as if her field of vision had narrowed down to just him). She approaches them quietly, though not quietly enough for him not to hear her footsteps. He turns around and upon seeing her, smiles and raises his eyebrows. She acknowledges him by mirroring his body language (do they speak the same one?) and walks past them into the office of the building. Having returned the key, she makes her way back out again, where he and the other one, or two, or three others are still huddled in a little group. She glances in his direction (she can’t help it) only to meet his gaze (perhaps he couldn’t help it either?). His eyes remain on her an instant, she feels herself begin to blush. But soon she steps out of view and into a different room. There, she sits down, a little smile forming on her lips. She had seen him – what luck! What joy! And what had they exchanged? Not a single word – only looks.
the experience.
What can be a more beautiful, moving and sacred experience than stumbling upon another soul so similar to our own that it inspires us to remain true to ourselves?
telepathy.
It scared her how sometimes she seemed to go right into his mind and know some of its contents. Or perhaps it was the reverse that happened: his mind travelled the distance and lodged itself into her being. For instance, she sensed that she knew how he felt about certain people: who he liked, disliked, and even why. But how did she know that? He had never told her a word of it; furthermore, his personal opinions of individuals was neatly hidden behind a diplomatic sensitivity and friendly politeness. It was likely that even those he did not like very much had no idea about it. Another instance happened whenever she daydreamed. It did not even feel so much as imagining a conversation anymore as it felt like a plausible, even real one, so distinctly could she hear his voice and his words in her head, as if he was right there, addressing her. A third occurrence that occasionally took her by surprise was when she would think to herself, “that is exactly what he would say” after saying something. In those moments, she felt more like him than her own self. How could she so easily read his mind? And she was sure of it too: for nothing he did or said ever surprised her, so well could she anticipate him.
details.
It seemed the more she loved, the less loving she acted, for who could guess the extent of her feelings when she kept her distance and looked almost disinterested? Those who watched her actions at a surface level might notice that she did not take every opportunity to speak to him, that she remained always a little away from him, that she never initiated any physical touch, that on the occasions she did converse, she appeared somewhat serious.
They would notice this and compare it to her behaviour towards others. She approached them easily, almost effortlessly, and spoke with a certain quiet confidence. She even often joked and laughed with them. She could stand close to them, she could look at them while they spoke.
But with him – how could anyone guess that he was the one, out of all these people, that she loved the most? Perhaps one might, by paying very close attention to her. Because it was in the barely visible actions that her love became visible. If he began speaking, you would see her eyes flash in his direction, even if she was in the middle of a conversation with somebody else. It was obvious then, that she was always paying attention to him, to all that he did and said. And there was a certain look in her eyes when she listened to him, a look that simply was not there with others: her gaze was more intense, more focused, but more tender too – a look of, quite plainly, adoration. And if anyone observed her for long enough, they would discover that this look came into her eyes at regular intervals, as if she could not completely peel her eyes off of him. She looked at him the most when he did not look at her; and when he did, she would hold his gaze and without saying a word, smile a gentle smile that balanced the intensity of her eyes. Someone might also notice the way her smile would linger on her face (and often got larger) when they both looked away from each other, and how she would take a second to recompose herself, as if this silent eye-contact had shaken her up more than any conversation. In the event of them actually talking to one another, one might pick up on her nervousness: either she went silent, or she spoke excitedly, stumbling over her words or forgetting them altogether. One might also see her cheeks slightly colour, and her general countenance giving off a more animated, lively energy.
If one saw all these little details about her, then they might infer the true state of her feelings that, if completely missed, suggested quite the opposite.
power.
In the most hidden corners of my heart you are nestled, quite safely, but oh-so secretly. It is so sad not being able to express these feelings with all the passion they bring forth. They must be quietened down, folded, battered until shrunk to a size so insignificant as to evade the risk of ever being felt, seen, or spoken about. And yet, I fear that no matter how much I try to reduce and crush these feelings, and no matter how tiny they become, their power will remain as overwhelming as it currently is.
voice.
Her ears tuned into a conversation between three people outside the room, the door of which had been left slightly ajar, as if for the sole purpose of listening in just as she was now doing. Of those three voices, two were female, and she cared little for them. It was the third voice which constantly tickled her ear whenever it spoke. It was his voice, she was as sure of it as one is sure of the sun rising again after night. She listened to this voice, paying particular attention to its tones, inflections, accents and pauses; and sat in quiet rapture at the remembrances of that voice addressing her – there were more than her gratitude could bear. This is the voice of my friend, thought she, and I could recognise it anywhere.
on missing.
Her emotions took control of her, once again. They were too overwhelming to be quietened down, reasoned with or ignored. Her heart was in the mood to cry: it seemed like so long ago (though in reality, only about a week) since she had last seen him, and she missed him as intensely as ever. His absence and its accompanying longing had a peculiar effect on her: she became more withdrawn and introverted, more dreamy and more tired too – for this sadness pierced her heart and made it so burdensome to carry in her chest. She was tired of missing him (an occurrence which happened more and more frequently).
It was this terrible sense of missing that made her get in the car and start driving towards his house. She had never been there before, but knew the address off by heart. She imagined what his house looked like on the outside, and even on the inside. From conversations they had had previously, she knew him to have a piano and many books, and she was very glad that his home possessed two of the dearest material things to her, and that made her feel close to him somehow, as if they had the same tastes, the same values, or were even the same person.
She had no plan for what she would do once she’d arrive at her destination. That said, she definitely was not going to make herself known, for this was a secret adventure undertaken to soothe her own emotional pain and nothing else. She supposed she’d park somewhere close to his residence, and just sit in the car and dream some more of him, with the comforting knowledge that he was so near – only a few steps away, behind a door and some walls.
“I just want to read my book next to you,” she could hear herself say if by any chance he should happen to see her outside his house. And it was true this was what she wanted: she loved her solitude but wished to share it with him, or to live it in his company.
Now she thought of the book she was reading, and of the heroine therein. She recognised so much of herself in that character, who, like her, never forgot a gesture of kindness shown to her, who remained devoted in her gratitude towards a man much older than she whom she called a friend, and who found comfort in the thought and memories of that man. In that story, the man had missed this girl, more than he had expected. Could it be the case also, that the man she revered and thought so highly of, had ever missed her, and been surprised by the intensity, or perhaps frequency, with which this missing came to him?
As she drove along, now she thought of him again. Him driving on these same roads, every day. So this is what it looked like and felt like, to be him. What did he do, while he drove? Did he ever think of her, or replay a small conversation in his mind? Did he ever remember how her face brightened up instantly when they said hello, and how she always smiled so sweetly when they looked at one another? And what of the times he had driven for the sole purpose of seeing her, at her request? Had it been a chore to him? Had he driven those roads, and crossed these intersections, feeling very glad that she had asked to see him, for in some deep part of his heart, there was a bit of bleeding where her absence, like a little knife, was digging a hole?
Words & Feelings 