CHAPTER 3: OBSERVATION
1418 Words
Friday mornings at St. Augustine Academy always feel slower. The weekend is close enough to taste, but the weight of the week still hangs in the hallways. I walk slower too. Not because I’m tired. Because I’m thinking.
Reagan’s words from yesterday keep circling.
“You’re closing the gap faster than last semester.”
“Your proofs are cleaner. Your timing on the last exam was three minutes faster than average. You’re not rushing anymore. You’re… deliberate.”
“Dangerous.”
Dangerous.
For second place.
I’ve replayed the almost-smile in my head more times than I care to admit. It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t warm. It was just a lift at the corner of his mouth—small, private, gone in less than two seconds. But it was there. And it was for me.
I hate how much space that tiny movement is taking up in my thoughts.
I reach the third-floor corridor. The ranking board is still up from yesterday—no new updates until next month. I don’t stop this time. I just glance as I pass. Same order. Same crown. Same gap.
Andra catches up to me outside homeroom, breathless from running up the stairs.
“You’re late to being early,” she says, grinning. “What’s up? You look like you’re
solving world hunger in your head.”
“I’m thinking about the physics lab pairing.”
She raises an eyebrow. “We already know the pairings. Alphabetical. You’re with—”
“Ty,” I finish for her. “I know.”
She studies my face. “You’re not mad about it?”
“I’m… neutral.”
“Liar.”
I don’t deny it.
We file into homeroom. Announcements. Reminders about the upcoming science fair. I tune most of it out. My mind is already in the physics lab, third period.
When the bell rings, I head straight there.
The lab smells like rubber stoppers and old circuits. I claim the window station in the third row—my spot. Good light. Good view of the courtyard. I set up the pendulum apparatus early: stand, string, bob, protractor. Everything aligned.
Reagan arrives last, as always. Two minutes before the bell. He doesn’t look around. Just walks to the back, drops his bag, and starts setting up at the station beside mine. Not next to me. One station over. Close enough that our setups are visible to each other. Far enough that we don’t have to talk.
Mr. Alvarez claps twice. “Pendulum experiment. Period vs. amplitude. Collect data, graph it, analyze sources of error.
Pairs work together, but individual reports.”
He reads the list.
“Verano and Ty.”
I feel eyes on me from across the room. Andra shoots me a look that says good luck and sorry at the same time.
Reagan doesn’t react. He just adjusts the clamp on his stand. Precise. No wasted movement.
I walk over to his station. Or he walks to mine. It happens at the same time. We meet in the middle.
“I’ll time,” I say. “You adjust angles?”
He nods once.
We start.
I read the protractor. He releases the bob. I start the stopwatch. He records the period. The rhythm is immediate. No discussion needed. Just numbers.
Ten trials in, he speaks.
“Release half a degree higher next time.
Air resistance skews the lower amplitudes.”
I adjust without comment. The next five trials are cleaner. Smoother data.
I hate that he’s right.
When we have enough points, I slide my graph paper toward him. “Your lines are straighter. You plot.”
He takes it. Our fingers don’t touch. He starts drawing—mechanical pencil, steady hand, perfect curves.
I watch him work for a second too long.
He notices. Doesn’t look up. “You’re staring.”
“Observing.”
“Same difference.”
I look away. Focus on the data table instead.
We finish early. Eight minutes before the bell.
He packs his kit with the same efficiency he does everything. As he stands, his bag strap catches the corner of my open notebook and flips it facedown.
The margin is exposed.
Months-old scribble in light pencil:
H.N. – dimple appears 0.7 seconds into real smile
Knows constellations by heart probably
Reagan’s eyes flick down. Half a second. Long enough.
I snatch the notebook up. Cheeks burn despite every effort to stay calm.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t smirk. Just steps around me and heads back to his station.
The bell rings.
Everyone leaves.
I stay, pretending to organize my things.
He stays too.
When the room is empty, he speaks from the doorway.
“That was old.”
I turn. “What?”
“The note. About Nakamura.”
I swallow. “It’s nothing.”
He leans against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Casual, but not relaxed.
“He asked me again last night.”
“About me?”
“About whether you’re interested.”
I feel the air thin. “And?”
“I told him the truth.”
“Which is?”
“I still don’t know.”
Silence stretches.
I step closer. Not crowding. Just enough to see his face clearly in the afternoon light.
“Why do you keep telling him that?”
“Because I’m not sure anymore.”
The words land soft. But they hit hard.
I search his face. No trace of games. No hint of teasing. Just steady black eyes.
“What changed?” I ask.
He considers the question like it’s a problem set.
“You started pressing lighter on the pen.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.” He straightens. “You used to grip everything like it was going to fight back. Now you don’t. You’re calmer. More deliberate. It shows in your work. In your timing. In the way you look at things.”
I don’t know what to say.
He continues. “And the way you look at things… changed.”
“How?”
“You used to watch Nakamura like he was the answer to a question you hadn’t asked yet. Now you watch like you’re trying to solve something else.”
My pulse jumps.
He doesn’t wait for denial. Just pushes off the doorframe.
“Good data today, Verano.”
He leaves.
I stand there until the hallway noise fades.
Then I pack my things slowly.
The notebook stays open on the table. The old note stares back at me.
I tear the page out. Fold it once. Twice. Drop it in the trash bin by the door.
It feels lighter than it should.
The rest of the day blurs.
Classes. Notes. Andra’s chatter about weekend plans. Hiro waving in the hallway, dimple flashing, smile easy as ever.
I wave back. Polite. Distant.
But my mind is on the physics lab.
On the station one over.
On the boy who noticed my handwriting, my timing, my gaze.
On the way he said “I still don’t know” like it was the most honest thing he could give me.
After last period, I head to the roof deck. Not many people come here—too windy, too high, too exposed. I like it for that.
I sit on the low wall, legs dangling, looking out over the campus. The sun is low. Everything gold and long-shadowed.
Footsteps behind me.
I don’t turn.
He sits a meter away. Not close. Not far.
Silence.
Then, quiet.
“You tore the page out.”
I glance at him. “You saw that?”
“I saw you fold it.”
I exhale. “It was old.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah.”
He nods. Looks out at the courtyard.
Hiro is down there. Laughing with the debate team. Bright. Easy. Surrounded.
Reagan watches for a second. Then looks away.
“He’s good for most people,” he says.
“But not for you?”
“Not for you either. Not anymore.”
I feel the words settle in my chest.
We sit in silence until the sun dips lower.
He stands first.
“See you Monday.”
He leaves
I stay.
The wind picks up. My hair whips across my face.
I don’t push it away.
I let it stay.
Because for the first time, the gap doesn’t feel like something to cross alone.
It feels like something we’re both standing on either side of.
Watching.
Waiting.
Observing.
And maybe—just maybe—ready to step closer.
- Writer
