Kairos

Complicated

A day like any other. Morning. Rushing to school. Flushed cheeks and short of breath. Yes, that’s me—a disorganized girl who loves to sleep… and always in a hurry. But at least I’ll see him. Again. I think I’ve even bored God by now. He’s probably used to it.

The class began. It was unusually tense, as if the space between them was charged with unspoken words and bottled-up emotions neither knew how to express. He sat a few desks away from her. His eyes never stayed still: one moment glancing out the window, then at his shoes, then at the paper in front of him, and finally, almost imperceptibly, flicking toward her. Every time she caught him looking, his lashes blinked rapidly, and his shoulders lifted as if trying to shield himself from his own vulnerability.

He nervously intertwined his fingers, tapped on the desk, and clenched his fists, attempting to control his impulses. His inner struggle was evident in every small movement: he wanted to approach her, but something always stopped him—whether it was the discomfort of his classmates’ presence or the fear of misreading her signals.

His friends made things worse. Whispering stupid advice, they urged him to approach her in all the wrong ways, commenting crudely on her body. "Look at her chest… and her butt… would you sleep with her?" they said, grinning and waiting for his reaction. His face would flush, his eyes widen, and his hands tremble slightly as he tried to retreat from their words.

Trying awkwardly to turn it into a joke only made it worse. Girls hovered around him, laughing, touching his hands and shoulders, seeking his attention. Each attempt only made him tenser. Yet his attention to her never wavered, though fear and confusion made his movements seem disconnected, sometimes even comical—abruptly standing up, jerking the chair, sudden shoulder twitches.

Inside, he constantly calculated: Why can’t I do anything right? If I look at her too long, I’ll seem aggressive. If I don’t, I’ll seem indifferent. She’s looking at me… does she see how confused I am? I mustn’t let her know how much I care. His mind was like a fragile glass globe of tension, ready to shatter at any moment. Every glance from her, every subtle change in her expression, he interpreted his own way—often wrong. His desires collided with his fear and shame, creating a chaotic swirl of emotions he didn’t know how to express.

She felt entirely differently. Her confusion was a mix of attraction, disgust, and anger. Her brows would knit when she heard his friends’ comments, and her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hands instinctively moved back, as if creating a physical barrier, while a subtle tightening in her stomach pulsed with discomfort. What is he trying to do? Why is he avoiding me when I look at him? Is he in love, yet still lustful? I don’t know what to think, she wrestled with her own contradictory feelings. Her body reacted automatically: a slight step back, pulling her hands away, a barely noticeable shoulder twitch when she felt trapped under his gaze.

Before the summer break, while they were still in school, the situation became even more complicated. His friends crowded him again, laughing and seeking his attention, while he, aware of her watching, pulled his shoulders back, lowered his gaze, and kept his distance. His confusion grew while she maintained cold, almost icy looks, which he misinterpreted. The silence between them was loud, filled with anticipation, tension, and attraction, making every encounter nearly palpable.

After school, she deliberately walked alone, hoping he might approach, but he never did. He would wander where he thought she might be, yet every time he hesitated, pressing his hands to his sides, turning away so it wouldn’t look like he was watching. His confusion deepened with each glance she sent, while she felt her stomach throb with tension and her hands tremble slightly as she noticed his micro-reactions—rapidly blinking eyes, shoulder twitches, subtle lip presses. Those moments were full of unresolved tension, a silence louder than words, filled with misread signals that kept them trapped in a cycle.

Why does everything have to be so complicated? Must it be like this?