CHAPTER 7: CLOSER
1179 Words
The Monday after the acacia tree doesn’t feel like a new chapter in some dramatic novel. It feels like the same book, just turned to a quieter page. No fireworks. No sudden changes in how people look at us. Just a small, steady shift—like the way the ranking board stays the same for weeks, but the numbers underneath are slowly rearranging themselves.
I wake up earlier than usual. Not because I’m anxious. Because my body seems to know something has settled. I lie in bed for a few extra minutes, listening to the fan spin lazy circles above me, replaying the feel of Reagan’s hand in mine under the acacia leaves. Not tight. Not possessive. Just there. Steady.
I get ready slower than normal. White blouse, navy skirt, hair tied back loosely. When I look in the mirror, I notice my shoulders aren’t hunched the way they used to be before rankings. I don’t know when that changed. Maybe it was the same day the handwriting got lighter.
At school, the gate feels farther away than usual. Or maybe I’m just walking slower on purpose. Andra is waiting near the tricycle drop-off, chewing gum and scrolling on her phone. She looks up the second she sees me.
“You’re glowing,” she says immediately. “Like, literally glowing. What happened after the tree?”
I shrug, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “We talked.”
“Talked.”
“Yeah.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re lying by omission.”
“I’m not lying. We just… talked. And held hands. And he walked me almost to the tricycle line.”
Andra squeals—quietly, because we’re in public. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for this since the first time you stared at him like he was a differential equation you couldn’t solve.”
I laugh. Soft. “He still is. Just… one I want to keep solving.”
She links her arm through mine as we walk inside. “You’re disgusting. But cute. Does this mean you’re official now?”
I shake my head. “No labels yet. We’re just… closer.”
She nods like she understands. “Slow burn. I respect it.”
The hallway is the usual morning chaos—lockers slamming, laughter echoing, someone yelling about a forgotten project. I spot Hiro near the bulletin board, talking to two juniors from debate. He sees me, waves. Dimple flashes. I wave back—small, friendly, no guilt. He smiles wider, then turns back to his conversation.
Reagan isn’t visible yet. But I feel the difference. Like the air knows he’s somewhere in the building.
Homeroom is uneventful. Attendance. Reminders about intramurals next week. I doodle in the margins of my planner—small, faint lines that look suspiciously like the curve of a pendulum graph.
First period ends. Second. Third.
Physics lab.
Mr. Alvarez announces pairs for the new experiment—electromagnetic induction. Alphabetical again.
“Verano and Ty.”
Andra shoots me a look across the room. I ignore it.
Reagan is already at the back station when I arrive. He’s setting up the coil and magnet without looking up. I walk over, set my bag down on the stool beside his.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
He glances up. That almost-smile flickers—barely there, but real.
“Hi.”
We work in the same rhythm as always. I read the voltmeter. He adjusts the magnet speed. I record. He notes the variables. No extra talking. Just the soft click of the magnet passing through the coil, the scratch of pens, the occasional hum from the aircon.
Halfway through, our elbows brush when we both reach for the data sheet at the same time.
Neither of us pulls away.
We finish early. As usual.
While the rest of the class is still struggling with calculations, he leans closer—voice low so only I can hear.
“Roof deck after last period?”
I nod once.
He doesn’t smile wider. Just goes back to packing.
The rest of the day drags and flies at the same time. Lunch with Andra—she keeps asking questions I answer in half-sentences. Hiro sits at the next table with debate friends. He looks over once, smiles politely. I smile back. No flutter. Just warmth.
After last bell, I head straight to the roof deck. The door is already propped open with a brick—his doing.
He’s leaning on the railing, looking out over the track field. Hands in pockets. Blazer off, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
I walk up slowly. Stand beside him. Not touching. Just close.
“Hi,” I say again.
He turns his head. “Hi.”
We watch the track team run laps below. The sun is low, turning everything gold and long-shadowed.
After a while, he speaks.
“You’re second now. Rankings-wise.”
The mid-quarter update went up this morning. I’m 98.12. He’s 98.67. Hiro’s at 97.88.
I nod. “Feels… different.”
“Good different?”
“Yeah. Like I finally caught up. But now I don’t know what to do with the space.”
He turns fully toward me. “You keep going.”
“To first?”
“To whatever you want next.”
I look at him. Really look. The way the late light catches the edges of his hair. The way his eyes don’t waver.
“What if what I want next isn’t on the ranking board?”
He considers that. Then, quietly: “Then you take it anyway.”
Silence again. Comfortable.
He reaches over. Slow. Fingers brush mine. I turn my hand palm up. Let him lace them together.
We stand like that. Hands linked. Watching the sun drop lower.
No kiss yet. No big declaration.
Just hands.
Just presence.
The wind picks up. My hair whips across my face.
He reaches with his free hand. Tucks the strand behind my ear. Thumb lingers on my cheek for a second.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“A little.”
He pulls me closer—side to side, shoulder to shoulder. His arm slides around my waist. Light. Careful.
I lean into him. Head on his shoulder.
We stay until the sky turns purple.
Then he says, “Walk you to the gate?”
I nod.
We walk down the stairs. Hands still linked. His blazer draped over my shoulders when we step outside—the evening air has bite.
At the tricycle line, he stops.
“Tomorrow?” he asks.
“Library?”
“Roof deck again. If it doesn’t rain.”
“Okay.”
He leans in. Kisses my forehead—soft, lingering.
“Good night, Zhyra.”
My name in his voice still feels new. Still makes my chest tighten.
“Good night, Reagan.”
He waits until I climb in. Watches the tricycle pull away.
I look back through the window.
He’s still standing there.
Hands in pockets.
Small smile.
The road curves. Campus disappears.
But the warmth doesn’t.
It stays.
Quiet.
Steady.
Closer.
- Writer
