When we laid together, you lightly pushed on my shoulder to tell me wordlessly ‘move over.’ The first time (and last time) you did this, was when the sunrise was the brightest, at least in my opinion, at 5:23 a.m. You began to drag your fingers across my back (boredom, perhaps), shirt cloth bundling up at times. Your words got more sloppy and irritated, and I could hear you shifting around. Then, you shoved my shirt up and pressed your cold hands against my back, before dragging your nails across.

‘Speak to me’ was (roughly) what I got, so I talked about my day in broken sentences. I told you how distracting you were, and before you could pull your hands away I said it was in a good way. I told you I wanted to hear your voice and your laugh, as I never even got stories from passersby. I talked about our cliché meeting – a new boy being sat next to a reclusive, quiet girl. I couldn’t hear it, nobody ever got the chance, but I could feel your hands shake – with laughter, anyways. I hope.

It was still early (for us) but we were tired. You traced random things, from animals to broken sentences. I stiffened, however. I could feel the sloppy writing against my back, worsening with tire. ‘I love you’ were three words I wish you never traced on my back, as we never talked again, due to my cowardice. I never felt your cold hands against my warm back, tracing random things again, and while I wish I could say there’s a happy ending, I’d be lying.