The Small, Stupid Details

It’s ridiculous the things I notice.

Not his smile — everyone notices that. Not his voice — though I could recognize it with my eyes closed. No, it’s all the small, stupid details that get me.

Like the way he chews pens when he’s concentrating. Or how he always rolls his sleeves halfway like they can’t stand fabric on his wrists. Or how he tilts his head when he is pretending to listen, but his eyes give him away — sharp, curious, always thinking.

I watch from across the room, pretending I’m doing something else. Pretending I’m not basically gravity-locked to his existence.

He is reading. He reads with his whole body — brow furrowed, lip caught between their teeth, one foot bouncing lightly like his thoughts have their own rhythm. Occasionally, he tucks his hair behind his ear, only for it to fall forward again almost instantly.

I ache for that tiny, futile gesture. It’s so him — stubborn, fidgety, endearing without trying.

Sometimes he laughs softly at something on the page. Not a full laugh. Just a breathy little escape of sound that feels like it was never meant for anyone else to hear. God, it hits me right in the chest.

I wish I were braver. I wish I could walk across the room and say something normal, charming, and cool. But I know myself — I’d freeze, or ramble, or accidentally confess my feelings that I have been suppressing ever since I laid eyes on him.

So instead I watch.

Quietly.

Pathetically.

Every now and then, he glances up — just a quick movement of the eyes — and for a split second, I swear he is looking for me.

But then he looks away, and I pretend it didn’t mean anything. Even though it did. Even though everything about him does. Some people fall in love with fireworks. I fell in love with his passion for more. His thirst for knowledge, with his ability to take charge. And somehow, that felt even more dangerous.