Evans P.O.V
It's here, it came. Her brown hair cascades down to her shoulders, she's on the bench not near the bathroom, but she is there. She's wearing a Beatles sweatshirt, she's also wearing baggy black pants, which to tell the truth looks great on her, and I'm sure no girl would look like that.
She's cute, yes, she is. His hair, his skin, and his black eyes, black like an abyss, like darkness, I think I would have to carry a flashlight so as not to get lost and get caught in them.
I direct my steps, towards where he is. I thought that he would not attend since he did not give me an answer when I asked him, no, rather I affirmed or demanded it, perhaps. I was very bad about it, so the first thing I will do is apologize since my action was not good at all. Although because I cited her for something important I think that's fine, but, no, what I did is not justifiable.
He arrived, at the bench where he is, and took a seat. She is writing something in a small notebook, she does not look up, she concentrates on what she writes. But something that catches my attention is that he is wearing headphones. And God this is amazing. Because apart from not talking, too, pretend huh?
I don't know who she is, I don't even know her name, but everything about her intrigues me, catches my attention, makes me very curious. Why don't you speak? Why are you pretending? What has happened so that you have a sad look to the point of anguish? Who is she?
"Hello" He spoke kindly, trying to get their attention.
He doesn't say anything, he doesn't look at me, he keeps writing. A few seconds pass, and she places a folded paper as she did in class in front of me. And now he does look up, that dark, penetrating sight. I just take them and open them.
You had something for me, didn't you? So, okay, hand it over and we're done with this. Oh, and by the way, my name is Kamila, nice Jones.
His calligraphy, God, is beautiful, from the first time I saw it, it captivated me, it is so, but so delicate and fine. It is just beautiful. So is that his name, Kamila with K? The really cute name for someone who makes his character come out by simply writing on a sheet. And if the truth is a bit intimidating, the confidence, determination, and rudeness that he conveys with the papers he has given me.
First I want to apologize for the impolite attitude I had in meeting you here. I'm sorry. And second, I'd like to ask you a question, why are you pretending, Kamila?
He doesn't answer, he just keeps his eyes fixed on me. He doesn't remove his headphones, I know he's listening to me. Yes, I know, what I don't know is why he continues with the farce that he listens to something. Why? Why are you pretending? There are so many questions that I have put out of education I don't ask. And the chances of someone answering me are almost nil. How do I know? From the cautious way he sees me, or at least from my perspective it seems that way.
I would like to know what you think, what you believe, what you are. I would like to be something more than a stranger, perhaps an acquaintance? But, ah, what things do I think.
-It's okay. Don't answer, "I say, as I take out of my pocket what belongs to him and for which I cited it here." Here, it belongs to you. You can stop pretending that music is what you listen to now, Kamila.
He slid the MP3 player across the table to her hands, for her to take it. But he doesn't, he just sees it and looks at me again.
"In the bathrooms." I found it there, apparently, it fell with your things, I knew it was yours when I saw your handwriting on it.— I try to clarify.
Yes, I could have sneaked it in in class. But, no, that's wrong, this type of device is not allowed while we study, and well, it may also have been a small excuse to talk to her, -although in the short time that I have known her talking is what she does the least -.
He takes off the headphones and leaves them hanging around his neck. Take the player, to put it in your bag. He doesn't say anything, or thank you, for all the sweets !, I practically saved his life, well, not his life, but I did something good and he is not grateful, who will be the parents of this girl so as not to teach them to thank at least for courtesy?
"A thank you wouldn't be much, you know."
Take your notebook again to write. He finishes and puts it in front of me, this time he does not cut the page of the notebook, but that considered.
Thank you? How why? Because according to me, it was your fault that it fell and that I was close to not getting it back.
I don't know why, but he's always on the defensive, like maybe protecting himself? About what, I don't know, maybe about me? No, I don't think so, it may be like that with everyone. But it doesn't have to be that way with me, I've just tried to be nice, and I don't deserve that treatment.
-You know what? You're right, okay. See you soon, Kamila.— I stand up, leave there, and go to my next class since the break is about to end. Besides, what is the point of continuing to insist on wanting to talk –even through small pieces of paper– with her.
The class that corresponds to me to receive is art, and for that reason alone it entered with all the energy and enthusiasm of the world. I'm not good at art, in anything that has to do with drawings, painting, or creativity, but I chose it, because well, I lose nothing by trying to learn a little about that world.
In the classroom there are not many students there are only three, a girl dressed completely in black, the only striking thing that stands out is her blonde hair, she is in the first seat next to the window; And there is also a brown-haired girl, with a dark-haired boy at the back of the room, and they have been in the wrong classes, because I'm sure that what they want to study the most right now is anatomy, because of the way they kiss and touch. his body in despair, how disgusting! For the love of God they should have more respect for others, we don't need to see such a show that they are giving.
I quickly catch my eyes and direct my steps away from those two homo sapiens who, if others weren't present in the same room, might already be in the other phase, mating.
I'm headed to where the blonde girl is, I need to make friends, so my chance has come.
"Hi, are you busy?" He asked, pointing to the seat next to him.
"Hey, no," he responds monotonously.
She is cute, has a perfectly shaped and small nose, her eyes are hazel and small, her blonde hair is straightened in a ponytail. She is wearing black tight jeans and a jacket of the same color, her eyelids are covered in black like her lips, in reality, she looks like a Barbie but with a dark style.
It's cute, yeah. But not like the rude girl with the ebony irises.
"My name is Evans, nice to meet you." I introduce myself and shake my hand in greeting.
"I'm Olivia," she says. His voice is so, but so sweet that if I am not seeing it I would think it is that of a baby.
"So, are you, Evans, the English? What brings you here, eh?"
The accent always gives me away. Bless you. What brings me here? Many reasons, many reasons, Olivia.
"Yes, Evans the English." I limit myself to answering his first question, trying to forget the last one.
Many reasons made him choose to come to Canada, many, not only to know a new place, but also to know my roots, and above all to try to know me because in recent times I don't think I know who I am.
The room fills up with students, while each one remains in his thoughts, and in a thick silence –which I am partially grateful for–, until a few steps are heard and the assigned teacher enters, but he does not enter alone, Rather, he is accompanied by my great dear friend Kamila. And for the sixth time in a single day, those dark and penetrating irises meet mine - it's not like he's counting the times he looks into my eyes; well, maybe yes.
We all have internal ghosts, ghosts turned into fears, anxieties, weaknesses, –those that always wander in our thoughts or feelings–, and with which we have to deal every day; nobody but one can see them and fight with them, nobody but one is aware that they are there, inside one. Many times we judge without knowing the internal battles that others have, many times we are critical of lives that are not ours, and the worst thing is that criticism is not constructive at all. She, Kamila, has been criticized, judged, pointed out, without knowing the reason for her silence, without knowing the internal battle that she has every day. And no, I have no idea what internal battles he is having, or why he does not speak, but being too reasonable, and perceptive, I have deduced it, I have also put his place to understand him without even knowing the story of his life and the why of their actions; I want to help her, I also want to protect her from all those ignorant people, and all the false gossip that is handled. But, the question is: will you let me help you?