Had she gone too far?

She didn’t know, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. All she wanted was to live in this beautiful feeling, to make it last, to take something new and different into her shell with her. Everything in her universe was dwarfed by this feeling, even her parents, her aunt, her teachers.

They could all go to hell!

She’d had enough of her family’s preaching. From now on, when she heard it—either in the morning or the evening, or whenever she was going out, even just to stroll down the road—she’d reply with a pitying smile and a philosophical toss of her head, as her ears, her heart, and her soul had rejected what she heard until she could mock her old values.

They didn’t understand, and she herself had only just started to figure things out!

Now she wouldn’t be hurt when her friends said, “You fool! You have the same mentality as your parents and your spinster aunt!”

It was true. She used to be like them, all three of them, but now she had a new sense of the world. And after today, she’d rely on her own feelings and her own free will to define herself, not on the words of her mother and father and spinster aunt: “Don’t be like the others, you’re nothing like those frivolous girls, you’re this, and you’re that…”

Tomorrow, her girlfriends from class were meeting under the scraggy old oak tree, and they’d talk about everything and nothing. Hands would carefully reach into pockets, bringing out the perfumed letters that had captured the girls’ eyes and hearts. And, for the first time, she would have something to say, if she chose to speak. She had plenty of stories to tell about him. And even if she stayed quiet—and shyness might well stop her from speaking—it wouldn’t be because she had nothing to say, but because she had chosen discretion. In any case, she’d tell herself the story with all the tiny details she knew so well; she relived them every time she threw her head onto the pillow, or huddled, dreaming, in the corner of the bus, or tuned out of a lesson, hearing only the bell that marked its end. His face was always near; she’d conjure it up whenever she let her eyelids fall, and it would come to her, jumbled at first, then settling into its familiar shape, so she could clearly make out the tanned brown forehead, the dark brown eyes, and the smile, which was the best thing about his face.

She wished it was only an hour until she could join her lovestruck friends. She would scream, without shame, “He’s THE ONE!”

How large he loomed in her world! But all her friends cared about was finding out his name. Who had turned the smug, stubborn girl she used to be into a silly female, just like them?

What would they say if they knew the stubbornness had been knocked right out of her that first time she saw his brown face on the bus?

They’d laugh at her, of course, but they’d realize she was human, and that, just like them, she had feelings and could fall in love! Didn’t they call her “the wooden plank?” She used to scoff at this, waving them off with a flick of her wrist. She’d taken comfort in what her mother and father and aunt always said: that she wasn’t like the others, she was cut from a different cloth, came from a purer stock, and was the perfect example of how a girl should be.

What a fool she’d been!

The first time was on the microbus. He had climbed in and, without even a glance at her, sat in the seat next to hers. But she saw his reflection in the driver’s mirror and liked the color of his hair and the shape of his bottom lip. He got off before her, and she went off to college and forgot all about him.

The second was at a shop that sold soft drinks. Feeling thirsty one day, she’d gone in with her books to order something and saw he was there. She drank up without looking at him, then tried to pay with a large note. The seller apologized—he didn’t have change—so she turned to the boy and asked him to break the bill. Then she paid for her drink, glad he hadn’t offered to buy it for her, like some insolent boys would.

The third time was at the library, where she’d gone to read the chapters she’d been assigned from The Unique Necklace, only to find him there, hunched over a book (perhaps, like her, he was a student of literature). She settled down to her reading, but when she lifted her head, she caught him staring at her face. This made her happy, but she didn’t smile at him.

The fourth, fifth, and tenth times were also chance meetings at the library. She was done with The Unique Necklace, but she kept going back to read it, hoping every time to see him. Once she’d arrived and reassured herself that he was there, his head bent over a book, she would breathe a sigh of relief, making her way to her place with a little skip in her step.

Still, she never once forgot that she wasn’t like the others, and that—as her parents and spinster aunt would say—she was cut from a different cloth. So she would greet him primly, and then turn with restless attention to her book. She read, but struggled to understand and, every now and then, would nervously jerk her head up to steal a glance at the nearby brown face.

Once, she had noticed he was stirring in his chair and closing his book, so she jumped up and rushed to return hers to the librarian, making it to the staircase before him. Then his footsteps echoed behind her, and she could tell he was close. He smiled at her, and they walked down the stairs together, and headed—also together—for the bus. He asked if he could sit with her, and insisted on paying for her ticket. She had started to object, but his smile, which had a hint of teasing, made her stop. And on the way, he found out what her name was, and the name of the college she attended, and she found out his name, and that he wasn’t a student like she’d thought.

She liked his name. And she was glad he wasn’t just some naive student.

And when they parted, she had felt a bit anxious, worried that she’d been nicer to him than she should have been. And she was afraid that curious eyes might have seen them together. But, deep down, she gave in to the strange feeling that had swept over her.

After that, she often ran into him without having arranged to meet, encounters for which she believed chance alone was responsible. After all, she wasn’t flighty and he wasn’t reckless, so she ruled out the thought of any scheming.

Once, she was standing in line to buy a ticket at the cinema. She had bought her ticket and turned around to find him waiting his turn behind her. He nodded hello, and she rushed in and sat in her place, feeling a little nervous and confused. Not long after, he came and sat down in the seat beside hers. She had pondered this move. Had he sat there on purpose, or by chance? She had begun to wonder whether these repeated coincidences were too opportune to be pure chance. So why was this person following her? Why was he paying her so much attention? If he was doing it deliberately, then she would resist him, firmly, and she’d keep him in line. Because, of course, she wasn’t like the others. She was different from them in both seed and nurture, with principles she had never betrayed. And this sort of thing was forbidden by her upbringing and her father, her mother, and her aunt. And she… she… she had ignored him. She hadn’t spared him a single glance. Still, in spite of all that, her heart had sunk when he got up and left the theater, although he soon came back with a bag of candy. He had offered her some, but she refused. Without a word, he smiled a smile that lit up his brown features, and cruelly ate it all himself.

The film started, and images crowded onto the screen, but she watched with unseeing eyes, distracted by the one sitting next to her. Why had he come? And what did he want from her? Why didn’t he try to start a conversation? Had it been rude to refuse his candy? How silly she’d been! What would it have mattered if she’d eaten a little, when she’d already let him pay for a bus ticket? Surely by now they knew each other well enough. Or didn’t she think their sessions in the serious atmosphere of the library, surrounded by the smell of books, meant she could feel at ease in the company of this nice, polite young man?

What was this feeling that stirred inside her every time he was near? Anxiety? Confusion? Elation? Was it happiness or anger? Or was it all of those combined?

Even though it was dark, she had sensed his eyes staring at her face, making her heart pound hard in her chest, and leaving her so unsettled that all she could make out on the screen were shadows. He had some nerve! If he went any further, she would scream at him and… She felt his hand inching closer to hers, his fingers reaching longingly for hers, and she didn’t pull them away—her fingers felt like they were glued to the armrest. He smoothed his palm over the back of her hand, closing his fist around it, holding it tight. And they stayed like that until the lights came on. She felt annoyed that the ending had come so soon, and then was ashamed of herself, despising her weakness. She left without looking at his face.

And that night, she couldn’t settle her restless head on her pillow… Had she fallen in love?

She had never been in love before, so how could she know if these unsettling feelings were love? If she asked one of her experienced girlfriends, they would diagnose her case like an expert, dwelling gleefully on the details. But no, she wasn’t known for being weak, and she didn’t want people to think that she was like the others, that she had… indiscretions. If romance novels were true, then this was love, with all its sweetness and its anxiety. It tormented her night and day, taking over her thoughts and making her forget everyone around her, except when their faces were right in front of her. She’d be called to a meal, but she’d hardly eat a thing, and she’d sit alone with a book, but see only his face. Indeed, she lost all interest in the things she used to enjoy. So then, she realized, she was just like those heroines—the ones in books and movies—even though her hero was different from the ones whose stories we saw on-screen: their bodies were fitter and their features finer than her young man’s. Before—because her life had been divided in two parts, “before” she’d met him and “after”—so before, if she sat down and let her imagination run free, as every girl does, to picture the man of her dreams, she would have wished he had wider eyes, and a finer nose. And she would have chosen a cleft chin for him, and a face that wasn’t so dark.

But could she really consider him to be hers—had he said so himself? Did he add all these little things up in the same way she did? If she looked at it objectively, nothing they had done seemed dangerous. What was wrong with a boy talking to her, or paying for her bus ticket just once? A lot of other boys would have been happy to do the same if she’d let them. And what did it matter if his hand had touched hers in a moment of weakness? No, it didn’t mean anything—she was just deluding herself. She had given these little things too much significance, until they had grown too big for her little heart to bear, and she’d named this giant she’d created “love.”      

Secretly, she decided not to make room for him in her heart or her soul; she would turn away from him like a virtuous young woman should—otherwise, what was the difference between her and any of those silly girls?

She had been relieved by this decision, but it crumbled as soon as she saw him a few days later in the street. Her emotions ran riot inside her when he came up with the nicest smile, saying hello and inviting her warmly for a cup of tea. Flustered, she wasn’t sure what to say, but she found herself, under the force of his will, sitting in a lovely, quiet café with a cup of tea in front of her, which she drank without tasting. And while they sat there, she no doubt only opened her mouth to say silly things that would break the silence and turn the boy’s eyes away from hers.

They finished their tea and got up to go, not to the busy street that led to the world of people, but to another one that twisted and turned until it took them to an open stretch of land. Nothing stirred or made a sound except the swish of their footsteps moving through the grass as they walked, his hand in hers, emotions raging in her heart. She wanted him to take her back to the crowds, but she didn’t ask him to do it. And, as if he had read her mind and sensed the struggle in her heart, he pulled her to him and said, “Don’t be afraid. I love you.”

She didn’t say anything—she couldn’t say anything—because his lips were on hers, gentle and warm.

Had she gone too far?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know. All she could think, or feel, or understand was this new sense of life, born this hour inside her.